Read Like a Book
by kkolmakov
Summary: Sometimes there's a woman. Not the Woman, of course, and only for a brief time - but it doesn't mean it doesn't count. An unremarkable, modest librarian comes to Sherlock for help. Someone visits her flat at night, and a man shortly appeared in her life only to vanish without a trace. Are the events connected? And how will Sherlock take her uncanny ability to see right through him?
1. A Client

**Dedicated to my darling reader, Neewa!**

 **Thank you for your endless support, and your kindness and generosity!**

 **Love,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

"Sherlock! Yoo-hoo, are you here?" Mrs Hudson's voice came from the stairs, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock!"

"I'm up, Mrs Hudson," he answered. Why did the woman always require stating the obvious as an answer?

She stuck her head through the door, and smiled to him. There was clearly a client waiting for him, judging by the happy expression on the woman's face - she always announced them as if giving him a gift, and he couldn't argue with such attitude. He was properly in need of one these days. The slight nervousness also indicated the client was familiar, and even perhaps some sentiment was involved, and he sighed. He'd prefer some gruesome murder, or a nice serial killer.

"Sherlock, I have a client waiting for you, but… It is my poor friend's daughter… from long before, poor Ludivine, such a tragedy! And I have to ask you for a favour, Sherlock..." The woman clucked and clucked, and Sherlock curled his upper lip in irritation.

"Yes, yes, yes! I will play nice, and will try not to hurt the poor girl's feelings..."

"Oh, Sherlock, please do! You can be so abrupt sometimes." Mrs Hudson tut-tutted, and disappeared at the staircase. Sherlock sighed again. A murder, a nice triple murder, was it too much to ask?

* * *

The client was a young woman, around twenty five. _Considering the slender build, and the pale skin of a redhead, perhaps older._ The eyes had a calm, mellow expression, though. _An interesting combination of youthful appearance and old eyes. Irrelevant._ Angular face, no makeup, hair in a braid. Stylish, yet dull clothes. Good quality, not too expensive. No nail varnish. Strong hands, looked after, short nails, but soft skin; early stages of arthritis in the joints of long fingers. Paper cuts.

"Mr Holmes?" The woman stood by the entrance, and he pointed at the client chair. Slight Irish accent, hidden under the upper received pronunciation. Irregularity in the vowels. _Self-taught? Attempting to seem more posh than she is?_

"Hello. How can I help you?" She sat down, and placed her backpack under the chair. _Familiar gesture. University for many years. Tense posture, fidgeting fingers. Nervous? No, embarassed._

"Mr Holmes, my name is Wren Leary. I have a matter to ask you about, but it is rather trivial, and of sentimental nature, and I'm worried..."

"That I will dismiss it and perhaps ridicule you cruelly?" he asked, and her eyes widened. _Pupils dilated, immediate colouring of the cheeks. Easily blushing._ "That's why you asked Mrs Hudson for reference, although you despise your parentage, and your mother's previous association with Mr Hudson's cartel. You tried to protect yourself, although it pained you to be looked at as your mother's daughter."

He expected shock. The usual set of physical reactions would be paleness, slacking jaw - and then realisation and emotions kicked in. Some chose disbelief, sometimes suspicion that he had somehow cheated. There was always indignation, sometimes anger.

Ms Wren Leary tilted her head to the side studying him. _Interesting. That was clearly a trained reaction. Not jumping at the first conclusion, not letting her first emotional response control her. High intellect? IQ perhaps higher than 140?_ Her face was burning nonetheless, one couldn't control the blood flow after all. _John expressed admiration then, the first time. Shut up._

"That is… fascinating." She paused, searching for the right words. "How did you know?" _76% of people asked how. 67.5% of them would try to hide the signs in the future trying to avoid others guessing the same. They were in no danger, of course. No one could do what he did._

"Mrs Hudson mentioned that you were the daughter of a friend from long ago. That would be her exotic dancing, bookkeeping times, in her husband's drug cartel. You are a librarian, in dull unattractive clothes, faking an upper class accent. You wouldn't want to be associated with a woman with the aforementioned past. Also, your mother's name. Ludivine. Clearly French. You use your father's surname, Irish. Clearly father's, considering the red hair and the freckles. Thus, you emancipated from your mother."

She dropped her eyes to the floor, and he noticed the regularity of breathing. _Measured inhales, prolonged exhales. Anxiety therapy technique. Highly functional OCD?_

"My mother was indeed an exotic dancer. A stripper, I believe, is a more appropriate word." The voice was sharp and tense. "She met my father, who was a police officer, and an abusive alcoholic. They were quite a pair. Both died early, I was a teen. I am indeed a librarian. I assumed you guessed by the badge around the neck." _And by the paper cuts. But that had been excessive. Was he getting sloppy? John would say he was showing off. Shut up._ "Everything's quite right..." When she was nervous, the old, less privileged accent would become more prominent. The long fingers intertwined. _Hands not shaking. With her level of anxiousness, considering an amount of adrenaline pumping into her blood - quite an achievement._

"I assumed you would disparage my case from the start, and I did ask Mrs Hudson for reference. Can't say it did much." That was clearly sarcasm. _Perfectly executed, by the way. Irrelevant._

She jerked her chin up and glared at him. _Sectoral heterochromia iridis. Eyes both green and hazel. Brighter spikes of colouration around pupils._

"Will you treat me better if I return the favour, Mr Holmes? I do not take critical remarks well, I tend to have panic attacks after unpleasant conversations. If I analyse you the same way, will you treat me with more respect?"

Silence rang in the room. He stared at her. Her cheekbones flamed even more furiously, and he assumed that hadn't been a thought through statement. She then bit into her bottom lip. _Nervous habit. Clearly, that happens often. A careless remark, hardly under her control. Interesting. Irrelevant? Yes, but still interesting._

"Please, do." He dismissively waved his hand in the air. She looked him over, but he immediately doubted her skill. She was skipping the details he would note, such as the clothes, and the stains on his jacket, but looked at his face attentively. There was nothing to see there, he was in full control of his expression.

"You're lonely. And in emotional pain. All the time. You were a lonely child. But there's a streak of martyrdom in you. You have an older brother, right? That's not a deduction, Mrs Hudson mentioned your brother. So you had a sibling, and I would assume he cares for you. You wouldn't have survived otherwise. You are too self-destructive. But you prefer to think you are completely alone, because it allows you to feel sorry for yourself. You had a friend, but he or she is gone now. Not dead, you are not devastated. I assume they moved on, and it pains you. You feel betrayed, left behind. Again, it doesn't have to be this way, but you are enjoying your suffering too much to actually try to fix it."

She exhaled and looked into his eyes, "How did I do?"

Sherlock swallowed the knot in his throat, and threw one leg over another. _His hands were not shaking, that would be preposterous. John's wedding's in two weeks. Shut up!_

"You failed miserably." He gave her a sly smile. "All of this is nothing but emotional palaver. You haven't gathered any information, and..."

"And yet, I am right," she interrupted, and their eyes locked again. She held his gaze, but then she blinked, and smiled to him softly. "I am no detective, Mr Holmes. If I were one, I wouldn't need your help, would I? But I know a man in pain when I see one."

"Do you claim to read minds? Oh no, wait, it's aura reading, isn't it?" He gasped theatrically, and flailed his hands. "How are my chakras?" He realised he was sneering, but he couldn't stop. _Of course, her words had not affected him! That would be… inconceivable! For that he would need to have emotions to have them compromised._

"Goodness, no. I believe in this New Age rubbish no more than you. I'm just an empath."

Sherlock snorted scornfully.

"Empaths don't exist. It's a sentimental notion of sci-fi reading females."

"I unconsciously read body language with the speed that my own mind doesn't register, Mr Holmes. That is the current scientific explanation of my ability. So, it seems as if I read minds and intuite, but in reality I just do the same as you do, but it's just faster. And you also throw longing looks at the empty armchair across from you."

Sherlock tried to refrain, but his eyes once again fell on John's chair. _He really should have moved it. And should've gotten rid of the stupid Union Jack cushion._

"If indeed you do do what I do, but faster..." He added venom in his tone, to emphasize how ridiculous her ideas were. "Then why are you here?"

"Because someone comes to my flat almost every night, while I'm at work, and searches it, trying to leave no traces. Also three weeks ago, I met the man of my dreams, who disappeared in the middle of the same night, out of my bed, and I haven't heard anything from him ever since. So, I want you to investigate the break-ins... and find a certain John Thorington."

 _To be continued..._

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **Etsy Shop _The King and Wren_**

{has its own page on Facebook}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	2. A Conversation in a Cab

"I'm grateful that you took my case, Mr Holmes, but why do we have to rush to my flat right away?" He could feel Ms Leary study his profile in the darkness of the cab. He kept his eyes on the city flashing behind the window.

"Because I need to search it, before they know you've contacted me. At this stage they are certain they've been very discreet." She made a surprised noise, and he turned to her. She was pressed into the opposite door. _Clearly avoiding any physical contact._ "You said you estimated they've been visiting you for the past two and a half weeks. They come, search, try not to leave any traces, and they always come back. So, they haven't found what they are looking for yet. And they don't know you've noticed. What is it you are treated for? OCD?" She gulped. It was audible.

"Yes, but I'm highly functional. It's more of a personality trait, than a disorder. But still, I did notice." She fidgeted, and straightened out the strap of the backpack on her lap parallel to the hem of her light coat. _Coat too warm for the weather. Slight tremble in fingers, not present during the interview in his flat. Low blood sugar, clearly dropping lower. Hypoglycemia? Probably, an eating disorder. Healthy complexion, though, so also under control._

"Tell me of the man."

Her nose twitched, in a nervous habit. _Not a side twitch, not like John's… Irrelevant. No, relevant. More of a momentarily flaring of nostrils. It wasn't just a tick, it's a minuscule expression of disdain._

"I was in a pub, with a friend… She left early, with a man. She always does. And I was finishing my chips, when he came up to me. I'm never approached, and I felt suspicious. But I always know, Mr Holmes." She gave him a determined look from under frowned brow. "I know you dismiss the idea of empathy, but I almost always know when people lie to me. And he didn't." She chewed at her bottom lip. "He said he found me… interesting. That was his word. Not fit, or attractive, or… Whatever rubbish they tell women to chat them up. Because I wouldn't have believed that. I mean, look at me!" He did, and wasn't sure what she was referring to.

 _Oh, right, a ginger. Very small, no curves. No desire to be liked either. Grey trousers, dark blue jumper. No heels. Everything neat, impeccable, dull…_

"And you went to his place, I presume."

"I brought him to mine." The tone was defiant. He studied her face.

"You have never done that before," he drew out slowly, and she shook her head. "Fascinating. Why did you this time? What was different?"

"I don't know..." she whispered. "He seemed… Goodness, I don't know how to explain it." She inhaled, and looked at him directly. "Perfect. That's the only way I can put it. He was attractive, smart, understanding… We chatted, and it was… magical."

Sherlock cringed. "Ms Leary, in the course of this evening I fell under a false impression you were a reasonable woman. Could you please refrain from such remarks?" His tone was sarcastic, but he was surprised to notice he wasn't feeling irritated.

She laughed suddenly, and relaxed, consequently taking a bit more room on the seat, closer to him. The laugh was reserved, but sincere.

"I have no other way to describe it to you. They say there's a sexual compatibility encoded in people's DNA. Do you prefer this explanation to the idea of two people 'just clicking?'" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's slightly less preposterous, I suppose." She chuckled some more.

"I invited him myself. He hadn't been hinting on it, we were chatting, and I just blurted it out."

"You do that quite often, don't you?"

"I call it Leary-Tourette," she joked, and his lips twitched in amusement. He could appreciate labelling oneself with invented psychological disorders like no other.

"And what happened then?"

"We came to my place. I have no alcohol in the flat, I'm intolerant." Sherlock catalogued this detail for later use. She continued, her face distant, "Then we were in the bedroom… And it was going well..." She was stuttering now, and probably blushing. It was hard to tell in the dimness of the cab. Her fingers were fluttering on the backpack wildly now. "And then his phone rang… He jumped off the bed, picked it up, from the floor, from the trousers pocket… and then… left. That was it."

"Did you hear anything from his conversation?"

"Not much. Just 'yes,' and 'no,' and 'what?' He seemed very surprised. And stressed out. As if something terrible had happened." Sherlock dismissed the remark. That was all emotions. "Mr Holmes, you are making that face again."

"What face?" he asked haughtily. _There was nothing wrong with his face._

"'Bloody people and their bloody emotions' face." She smiled to him. "I understand how it looks. A bloke chats up a girl, comes to her place, it's disappointing, he leaves with an invented excuse. And believe me, even though it didn't feel like it… I would have never even mentioned it. But what are the chances for the two most remarkable events in my boring life to happen within the same week?"

"Universe is rarely that lazy."

Sherlock watched her sigh and look through the window. The corners of her mouth were lowered mournfully.

 _Low self-esteem. Avoidance of physical proximity to males. She had seemed comfortable giving a hug to Mrs Hudson when saying goodbye. Dark clothes, baggy, hiding the shape. History of sexual violence? Then why invite a man to her place?_

"So, you do not have frequent intercourse, rarely communicate with men outside your work. You're clearly mistrustful of males. And yet you invited him over." She looked at him, obviously not understanding where he was going with this deduction. "If they wanted to get into your flat, and he was a bait, then whatever they are looking for must be very valuable."

"Why?" She sounded raspy.

"They have invented the perfect man for you. It requires a certain amount of research and planning."

She was staring at him with widened eyes.

"We talked about my favorite books..." she whispered, and her hands fisted on her lap spasmodically. "And he loved them too. Music as well… We laughed about Adele being in every radio. And then we discussed weather, and even that wasn't boring! I hate small talk… hate it. I always want people to be open, to share what matters to them… And then he suddenly told me of his childhood memories, of his dog, and how it ran away, and they searched for it for days… It was the most perfect conversation I've ever had with a man… Goodness, I'm going to be sick..."

"Well..." Sherlock tightened up his scarf. "How fortunate it is that we are near your flat already. You can empty your stomach in the comfort of your own bathroom."

* * *

She paid and jumped out of the cab. After taking a few gulps of air, with an open mouth, she turned away from him. The shoulders were shaking, he saw her fists clench and unclench.

"Give me a moment, Mr Holmes..." She took three measured breaths in.

"While you're gathering your bearings, I'd like you to think back at the man and try to describe him the best way you can."

She suddenly barked a sharp laugh and turned to him.

"You don't understand it at all, do you?" she mumbled.

"Understand what?" He was studying her building. _Nothing remarkable. Appropriate to her salary. Chosen carefully, clean, easy access. Even an idiot would guess the code on the door, the buttons were worn out in the most obvious of ways._

"Human nature." _Mary had said the same, the first evening they met._ Sherlock ignored Ms Leary's remark, calculating the approaches to the building. "I can't think hard about the reason for my anxiety while trying to control the said anxiety."

Something in her tone made him look at her. She was calmer than he expected. Some sort of rebellious mischief danced in her eyes. He noticed the slanted shape, and long lashes.

"But I drew about twenty portraits of him, so I really don't have to."

He suddenly found himself smiling to her, and she returned the expression.

"Shall we then?" she asked, and he nodded.

* * *

She unlocked the door, and he walked into the flat behind her. The first thing he noticed was a faint smell of men's deodorant in the air, and then she gasped.

The man inside - dressed in all black, mask covering the face - jumped at her, and she winced away. Sherlock wrapped his arm around her, jerking her away from the handle of the gun going down onto her head. He clasped the other hand around the man's wrist, and twisted. The assailant freed himself out of his grasp in a deft efficient move, and then the second one grabbed Ms Leary's upper arm. She made a high pitched noise, and thrashed in the grasp.

Sherlock by then had the first man's gun. Their professionalism showed in how quickly they evaluated the situation. The small body of his client was pushed into him, and he had to shift, taking her with him, avoiding the punch of the first man. They were clearing their way out though, not attacking, and in a second they both were gone, leaving him with a gun and a shaking woman in his arms.

She was pressed into him head to toe, her hands clenched around fistfuls of his jacket.

"Are you alright, Ms Leary?" He was already calculating in his head when they should call the police so that there would be enough time for him to look around.

She nodded, her face pressed into him.

"You smell nice..." she whispered into his chest, and he looked down at her in astonishment. "It's funny… You don't frighten me… I've just been attacked, by two men, no less… Just like that time..." _So, indeed the history of sexual violence. During teen years, considering how processed the trauma was. Also explained all the therapy._ "And still I'm not scared… You feel nice..."

She was clearly in shock. Sherlock felt irritation rising. He utterly disliked comforting people.

"You don't have to do anything," she suddenly reassured him. "I know you hate it. Just give me a moment like this..." She turned her head and pressed her cheek to him.

It was surprisingly not that... bothersome.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **Etsy Shop _The King and Wren_**

{has its own page on Facebook}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	3. An Unexpected Lodger

**Dear reader with the nick** **SkylarkianSongs** **, as you do not have a registered account, I will answer to your review here:**

 **Firstly, there does exist an extensive body of academic research on empathy. It has been studied from physiological point of view, as a corporeal reaction to the actions of another person; it has also been substantially studied in medical students, and specialists; the lack of empathy has been addressed as a potential reason, and a crucial aspect of violent behaviours. The heightened empathic abilities are also studied within the Myers-Briggs typology as a common trait in people with a distinct INFJ personality (which I have been attributing to this original character since it was created.)**

 **As for the second half of your review, I have to comment that I didn't appreciate either the tone, or the content of it. The links to my other media provided under every chapter I post for all my stories are put there by the request of several of my readers. Also, I consider the right to promote oneself reserved for any artist. Yes, the information contains the mentions of my Etsy shop and my book, but it also provides links to my JukePop and my blog, where readers can access several webserials for free. I have been repeatedly asked to post information on my WIP on my writer's Facebook page, and I think it is a good practice to let others know where they can find more of the writer's work if they enjoy what they are reading at the moment. And finally, the links are specifically put at the end of the chapter in order to not disrupt the reading experience.**

 **Thank you for reading and for taking time to leave a review!**

 **Best,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Wren stepped away from the detective as soon as she could. He was clearly uncomfortable, rigid and tense under her hands. It was odd how nice it felt to be pressed into him - no feeling of threat, no intrusive maleness.

She'd noticed how clean, almost sterile he was, from the start, still in his flat. The living room she had been sitting in was a mess. There was dust, and used cups, and bits and bobs, but the man himself was strangely… lacking in detail. Maybe, she liked it because that was her style as well. No accessories, each item of clothing simple, but high quality. She always felt that the clothes she wore outside were her uniform, her armour. Mr Sherlock Holmes seemed to go by the same principle. The monochrome outfit, the suit, the polished shoes, the fresh white shirt - everything was impeccable and austere. She wore such clothes because she had no skill in accessorising and matching items. It was a funny thought that Sherlock Holmes had none either, and she snorted. That was, perhaps, already hysterics.

And then she blushed furiously. She'd told him he smelled nice. He did, actually. She'd noticed at the very beginning. Something fresh, and masculine, and unfamiliar. She had a very sensitive nose. Another symptom of her anxiety disorder, according to her therapist.

"So..." She cleared her throat and stepped away from him. There was a grimace of hardly contained irritation on his odd face. Wren quickly tore her eyes away, from the cheekbones, and the curved cupid lips, and the strange slanted eyes.

She turned on the light, and gave her living room a look over. Everything was wrecked, drawers pulled out, her belongings scattered on the floor. She could see the kitchen through the doors. It looked no better.

The detective had a short conversation with someone named Lestrade on the phone, and hung up. He studied the room. It looked as if he was cataloguing every little detail.

"So, they decided to up the stakes. Clearly, they found out you went to me. They hadn't found whatever they were after, though..." Wren tore her eyes from her meticulously sliced li-lo and looked at him questioningly. He gave her the already familiar exasperated look. "They were done with their search about two hours ago, judging by the debris..." He waved around the room, but that surely didn't explain anything to Wren. He scoffed, and continued, "And yet they stayed, and apparently decided to switch to more a direct way of interrogation."

He pointed at something, and Wren saw a chair in the middle of the room. There were ropes made of sheets near it, and a bucket of water. She really didn't want to concentrate on it, but some nasty scene from a film with Nazis interrogating spies popped up in her head. Sick rose, and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

"Russian secret service methods, if I'm not wrong." The detective came up to the chair, and picked up the end of the rope. "Yes, the knots definitely indicate former Russian special forces."

So, they were going to tie her to the chair, and beat her, and dunk her head into the cold water… Wren swayed, and grabbed the nearest piece of furniture for stability. Something unpleasantly crunched under her fingers. She looked. It was a broken photo frame. The picture of her and her best friend, Thea was on the floor under her feet. She bent down and picked it up.

"So, what is it that you are hiding in this flat, Ms Leary?"

Wren's eyes flew up, and she stared at the detective. A strange, out of place thought that they had similar eyes popped up in her head.

"Ms Leary, the police will be here in twenty minutes. They will search this flat and, of course, find nothing. There'll be no fingerprints, and I assume nothing compromising. The criminals do need you to be out of prison to deliver whatever it is they want from you. If KGB didn't find anything, I doubt our imbecilic coppers will. So, how about we skip the idle talk, and you tell me what it is that you're hiding?"

"I swear to you, Mr Holmes, I don't understand… There is nothing here..." Wren allowed the detective to scrutinise her face.

"Something must have happened just before you met the man in the pub. What changed? What is it that started it?" he pressed on, his face cold, and Wren shivered. She had no one else to rely on. She needed to convince him!

"Nothing! No strange visits, no rings! I work in a library, for god's sake! I have no family to inherit anything..."

"That only happens in mystery novels, Ms Leary. What is your secret? Everyone has one." He stepped to her and leaned in. He was so close she could see the strange coloured irises. His eyes roamed her face.

"I don't..." Wren frantically searched her mind for the right words. "Mr Holmes, I have nothing… I swear..." Her throat constricted, and lips trembled. The stress of the last half an hour was settling in. She took a large breath in. She had been attacked; her flat had been wrecked; she was most likely still in danger! Her knees gave in, and she grabbed the same shelf again. It hurt, and she looked at her hand. She'd cut her fingers on the pieces of glass.

"Everyone has a secret, Ms Leary..." he repeated.

"I don't!" she interrupted, in almost a scream, and wiped the fingers on her trousers, immediately feeling more nauseated from the view of the blood stain on the fabric. "I have a boring job, no money in the bank… No connections… No one left me any envelopes, or suspicious parcels. I have one friend, I don't even have a pet!" Her voice broke, and she sobbed. The detective was seemingly unaffected by her words. "Mr Holmes, you have to believe me..."

She bit into the bottom lip, trying to control the tears. Panic was rising. Where was she to spend a night? If Thea were in town, Wren could stay with her, but would she put her in danger then? Wren felt immediately terrified.

"Mr Holmes, I have only one close friend. She's on a tour right now, but do you think they could try to… hurt her to get to me?"

He watched her for a few seconds.

"Where is she now?"

"In Amsterdam. She's a jazz singer… That's her." Wren showed the detective the photo in her hands, and he threw a quick look at it.

"I wouldn't worry. Just half an hour ago they were certain they'd make you talk."

It did not sound at all reassuring.

"I'll give her a ring." Wren started rummaging through the content of her backpack looking for her mobile.

Thea wasn't picking up, but she rarely did. She was probably in the middle of a gig. Wren left her a message telling her to be careful. By the time she hung up, the police was already stomping through the building.

* * *

The next couple hours passed in a flurry of some nightmarish nonsense. She had to retell the same story to a pleasant looking silver fox inspector, who turned out to be the said Lestrade, and then she walked through her flat with a few policemen. She, of course, couldn't tell if anything was missing, but looking at what had been her shelter and her haven just a few hours ago was painful. Even her plants were pulled out of pots, and she heard her favourite ficus snap under the foot of a policeman. The consulting detective stood aside, watching, and occasionally texting on his mobile. Wren was feeling increasingly exhausted and sick. Couple times she'd forget and try to pick something up from the floor, only to be scolded by yet another officer.

"So, what are you saying, Sherlock? What were they looking for?" the one called Lestrade asked the detective who was studying Wren's books scattered on the floor.

Wren peeked at the two men. By then she was curled in her armchair. She'd been keeping her eyes closed, the view of several unfamiliar men unapologetically digging through her belongings was causing bouts of sharp, painful nausea in her.

"They were looking for a small object, smaller than a matchbox, flat." Both Wren and Lestrade gave the detective a questioning look. He groaned theatrically. "Look at what they searched! Isn't it obvious?! They flipped through books, cut up cushions, emptied salt and pepper shakers in the kitchen. Also, the markings on the floor suggested they knocked through the floorboards. Apparently, they assumed Ms Leary here is a first class spy. Also, if one plans to interrogate a simple librarian, one wouldn't prepare bare wires and water torture."

Inspector Lestrade looked at Wren, and she pressed her back into the armchair.

"I swear, inspector, I have no idea…" she started, only to be interrupted by a loud disdainful scoff from Sherlock Holmes.

"She really doesn't, Lestrade. Our criminals are wrong. I don't know yet why they're interested in her, but I assure you, Ms. Leary is indeed a boring, unassuming librarian with no criminal past, and zero association with mafia, or Russian secret services for that matter. I have just confirmed it with Mycroft." He waved his mobile in the air.

Lestrade was still staring at Wren, and she squirmed under the attentive look of his dark eyes.

"Well..." the grey haired man sighed heavily. "I can leave couple officers in a car near the building..." Wren felt blood rush away from her cheeks. She'd have to stay here, and clean up, and somehow put her life back together, and she wasn't sure she could even touch a single thing in her flat. Everything seemed so alien, as if polluted…

"That's out of the question, inspector. As soon as we leave Ms Leary alone, they'll be back." Wren froze in her chair in terror. "Shall we, Ms Leary?"

She lifted her eyes at the detective. He was holding her coat in his hand.

"Pardon?"

"You're going to Baker Street with me. There's an empty bedroom in my flat. As you have so aptly deduced when you were there, my flatmate is indeed gone. You will stay there. I'm certain Mrs Hudson will be delighted."

There was lashings of sarcasm in his tone, but Wren jumped on her feet and grabbed her coat.

She'd hug him again, but she could see that one unsolicited physical contact with him was already pushing the limits of his patience.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **Etsy Shop _The King and Wren_**

{has its own page on Facebook}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	4. John Comes For a Visit

**I know I said I'd be updating the story on Wednesdays, but when have I ever stayed away from writing for that long when I'm that excited about a story? ;)**

 **Reviews are most welcome! :)**

* * *

It was Saturday, and John was on his way to visit Sherlock. The barmpot wasn't returning calls, and Mary suggested they went to Baker Street.

After untangling out of Mrs Hudson's gleeful bout of greeting and chatting, they went up.

Sherlock sitting at his table, drinking tea, with a paper, was a quiet ordinary view. A small redhead that came out of the kitchen with a cup and a triangle of toast in her hand wasn't.

"Oh dear, you are Dr Watson," she breathed out.

The pyjamas were flannel, decorated with merry drawings of acorns, the robe was light blue and fluffy. Mary gave out a small chuckle.

"I'm a client!" the redhead blurted out. "My flat has been wrecked, and some people are after me, but I do not know who they are, and why… And Mr Holmes was so kind as to offer me the second bedroom..." The girl's nose twitched neurotically. "Nothing happened!" The last statement was a loud squeak.

And Mary's undoing. Gleeful laughter rolled, and the redhead shifted her strange, Asian looking eyes between them.

"Ms Leary, do stop fretting. They are not my parents, and do not require any explanation from you, especially regarding whom I choose to cohabitate with." Sherlock's voice from behind the newspaper sounded beyond irritated.

"Oh no, please go on," John invited the girl, making her even redder in the face.

Mary snorted, but then stepped ahead.

"Hello, I'm Mary Morstan, I'm Dr Watson's fiancee."

"Wren Leary. Pleasure to meet you." The redhead shook her hand and shifted between her feet awkwardly. "Tea?"

"They've just had some. And some chips, as I see." Sherlock made his usual deductions, still from behind his paper. "I expected both of you to try to lose some weight before the happy event."

"We decided to indulge just this one time together," Mary answered, and tucked herself on a chair by the table. "And yes, please, Ms Leary, I'd love some tea."

"Please, call me Wren." The girl smiled shyly and dashed into the kitchen.

John sat down as well.

"So, you live together..." John drew out, and the paper rustled in Sherlock's long fingers.

"As Ms Leary has just unnecessarily explained to you, she's a client in need of a safe place to stay."

"Mr Holmes thinks the Russian special service is after me," the girl announced from the kitchen, for no reason in a gleeful tone, and stepped into the room with a tray. "I haven't found any sugar..." She then blushed again, and threw a look at the man behind the paper. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I had to snoop through your cupboards..."

"You clearly haven't opened the last one by the window." Sherlock's tone was even.

"Why?" the girl breathed out.

"There's a severed hand in a jar there. I'd expect you to be unable to refrain from a scream." John rolled his eyes. The clot was doing his usual showing off thing, even the tone was marginally smug.

"Oh I saw that last night, when you made me tea. Didn't want to repeat the experience."

The newspaper went down.

"You saw the hand?"

"He made you tea?!" Sherlock and John asked at the same time.

The girl's eyes darted between them.

"Yes… and yes."

Mary, sipping her tea, looked as if she just won a lottery.

"Well, it's a match made in heaven then..." John drew out, and saw the faces of the redhead and the detective grow even paler, which was remarkable considering how pasty they were to start with.

"No, no, it was terrifying!" Ms Leary rushed to reassure. "I haven't enjoyed it at all! I was just shell-shocked, and there was that bucket in my flat, and they were going to torture me..." She was mumbling and mumbling, and John frowned in confusion.

"So, there are indeed Russian special forces after you, aren't there?" Mary asked, equally disbelieving.

The girl nodded.

"You don't strike me as a James Bond kind of person," John noted.

"They are under erroneous impression that Ms Leary is in possession what I assume is a memory stick with some valuable information," Sherlock answered and took a sip of his tea. "Interestingly enough, our secret service seems to have the same opinion. They've even sent one of their own to... befriend Ms Leary."

"What?" the redhead squeaked and stared at him.

"The man you met at the pub?" Sherlock's eyes met the girl's slanted ones. "I took a picture of one of the portraits of his that were scattered on the floor of your flat and sent it to my brother. Mycroft promised me his file tonight, but yesterday he texted me that the man is one of theirs. According to Mycroft, Mr John Crispin Thorington, former SAS, currently a civil servant in the computer analysis department of DI. At least officially." The amount of sarcasm in Sherlock's tone told John how much doubt the detective had in the official side of Mr Thorington's biography.

"What's SAS?" Ms Leary was now gaining a greenish tinge to her skin.

"Special Air Service. A special forces unit, undertaking a number of roles including covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, hostage rescue, and human intelligence gathering," the detective announced with aplomb. "And before you ask, DI is Defence Intelligence, an agency within the Ministry of Defence, preoccupied with the 'all-source' intelligence analysis. DI draws information from a variety of overt and covert sources to provide the intelligence needed to support military operations."

"Oh dear..." Ms Leary picked up her cuppa with a shaking hand and toppled the tea into her mouth.

John and Mary exchanged shocked looks.

"And one of them is after Ms Leary as well?" Mary asked.

Sherlock straightened up his newspaper and hid behind it again. "He approached Ms Leary three weeks ago, with a bespoke fake personality, specifically designed to charm her."

John looked at the redhead, whose cheeks were as red as they got.

"He was… perfect. Said he loved the same books I did, and we chatted… I've never met anyone so…"

"Yes, yes, Ms Leary, we have heard you," Sherlock interrupted in a grumpy tone. "He was perfect. He did his homework, and convinced you to take him to your place. I'll leave the question whether he would have tortured you, once he searched your flat without success, to your consideration."

"Sherlock!" John scolded him, but Ms Leary shook her head.

"It's alright, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes is right." Her tone was bleak. "I don't know why I didn't see it. It was after all so suspicious, a man like him showing interest in me..."

John gave her a sympathetic smile. She was indeed rather unattractive, very skinny, all bones and angles; pale, with bright freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and on the cheekbones. She had a very wide, red mouth, that made her look a bit like some exotic frog.

John watched her long-fingered white hands clench and unclench on the table surface.

"So, why do they think Ms Leary has it?" Mary asked in a sober tone, which shook John and seemingly Ms Leary out of their thoughts. What was going behind the paper only God knew.

"I'm hoping Mycroft will be able to enlighten us. He'll stop by in the evening." With a decisive crackle of his paper, Sherlock jumped on his feet. "And now, Ms Leary, you and I are going to your library."

"I'm sorry?" the girl mumbled, staring at him with widened eyes.

"We're dealing either with a memory stick, or, which is more unlikely, with some papers that came into your possession by mistake. Since the only interesting thing about you is that you work in the library..." John always wondered whether Sherlock understood how insulting his remarks were. The detective continued, "I assume the object the criminals are after was in one of the books in your flat. Since they haven't found it even after pulling all your books apart, I assume you took it back to the library. How many books a day do you bring home from work, on average?"

"Five, or six..." the girl answered.

"And bring just as many back, I gather. Do you keep the records?"

"In my work computer."

"Then that's where we start." Sherlock marched away from them towards the bathroom. "Do hurry up, Ms Leary. There's a chance our criminals are at least marginally intelligent, and might have figured it out as well."

The redhead jerked and dashed towards John's old bedroom, but then she froze and swirled on her heels.

"Um..." She gave both John and Mary an awkward smile.

"Go, go, Ms Leary!" Mary waved her hand benevolently. "It's best to do as he says. Don't mind us!"

"Time, Ms Leary! John and Mary are perfectly capable of showing themselves out." Sherlock's voice carried over the sound of running water, and the girl mumbled a hurried goodbye and disappeared behind the door.

Mary shook her head in disbelief and finished her tea.

"That was… unexpected," John muttered, and got up.

"Indeed. But fun! I liked her. Hope, she stays."

"What do you mean 'stays?'" John stared at his future wife flabbergasted.

"Call it a hunch." Mary smiled to him, with the already familiar female superiority, and headed for the door.

"Mary! Call what 'a hunch?!' What are you talking about?!"

He didn't get any answer and sped up after her down the stairs. They apparently had another thousand cakes to taste. It was perhaps worth it, though. Maybe, he could fish for information while pretending to pay attention to the nauseatingly sweet monstrosities.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **Etsy Shop _The King and Wren_**

{has its own page on Facebook}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	5. Library

They entered the back door of the library, and Sherlock quickly scanned the surroundings. _One lock, magnetic key, standard alarm._ A child with a phone with access to Google could get in. Clearly, books weren't a valuable commodity enough these days, to be guarded better. This branch was also small; carpets hadn't been changed for at least five years; non-standard furniture, perhaps brought in by the employees. Children's section bigger than adults. A schedule of programs on the wall: mostly for mums and toddlers, and senior classes. Most classes taught by none other than W. Leary. Apparently, her alleged empathy made her a good instructor for a Sunday drop in knitting class.

"This is a friend of mine," Ms Leary said to someone behind the partition, and immediately a head of a middle aged women in ridiculous glasses in an appalling pink frame popped up. _First time Ms Leary had ever brought anyone._ Sherlock gave the other librarian's upper torso a quick look over.

 _High blood pressure. Judgemental. Curious. Has two grandchildren, both under one year old. Boring._

"Oh, Wren, dear, but it's not your shift today," the lady drew out, and her eyes roamed Sherlock.

"It's not," Ms Leary gave a surprisingly curt answer, and sped up towards the offices. Sherlock followed.

"Why do you dislike your colleague?" he asked, while the redhead was fiddling with her keys. _One for the flat, another for the office. One more for a locker room, probably in a gym. No, yoga studio. A key chain with some sort of a memorabilia. A vintage police box, but a blue one. Irrelevant._

"I don't. But she reads papers." She finally managed to unlock the door, and stepped in. The light went on.

"Papers?"

"Goodness me, sorry, I am doing that thing again. I skip steps in my thinking, and sound random." She threw him a small embarrassed smile. "Not enough social interactions, I suppose. What I meant is that she'll recognise you. And the gossip will never stop." Sherlock hummed noncommittally. Trying to keep up with someone else's thinking felt… refreshing.

* * *

Sherlock looked around the office. It was full of books, and paraphernalia, but clearly there was a distinct system to everything. _Postcards pinned to a large cork board. Random, chosen by the looks, not as memorabilia. Pop culture figurines. A poster, elegant design, probably opera. Not enough cultural knowledge to recognise the title._

Ms Leary came in and sat at her desk. Without looking, she put her hand on the mouse, waking up the screen. And then she looked at the desk, and he saw her tense.

"Someone was here. Someone sat at my desk." She pointed at a small wooden box. _Hand carved, India, Himalayan sheesham, bone inlay. Antique._ "They sat down, and moved it by accident..."

"Because the person had big hands," Sherlock agreed. "Yours are very small, that's why you don't shift it when you type." Sherlock stepped closer and looked at the other objects on the table. "Anything else?"

"No, just this. Or they put everything back..." Sherlock nodded.

"Who else has the access to this office?"

"I have the only key. And no one actually needs to come here. All the computers are connected to the same database. We don't use each other offices." She took her hands off the keyboard, and wiggled fingers in the air nervously.

"So, they were looking into the same thing as us. Check your records." Sherlock pointed at the computer, and the woman begrudgingly logged in and started clicking.

"The data base is ancient," she mumbled, her eyes running the lines of text. "It opens a new window for each record. They couldn't know it. Which is fortunate for us, we can see what they were checking."

Sherlock leaned to the screen over her shoulder. She jerked, and gave him a side glance. He ignored it.

"So?" he asked impatiently.

"They started with the records of three weeks ago, see?" She pointed at the long string of numbers. It took him three point five seconds to figure out the system.

"They went through two weeks, and then stopped," he muttered. She hummed agreeing, clicking on some other windows, seemingly having forgotten the discomfort from his proximity.

"They were interrupted, right? The last log in is at 2:12, which is when Mr Jenkins does his rounds..." Her eyes shifted between windows. _Speed reader. Trained. He'd made a wrong assumption last time. IQ higher than 150, at least._

"Caretaker?" he asked, and she nodded.

"I'm printing the list of the books I took out in those two weeks. Do you think we should check them?" She sounded… excited. Her eyes were shiny, pupils dilated, breathing speeding up. _As if she were enjoying the chase._

"They probably went through them, but we should still have a look," Sherlock answered.

She turned her head, ending up nose to nose with him. He saw her pupil dilate even wider, and her nose twitched in the already familiar tick. He straightened up and looked down at her.

"So, they got interrupted," he summarised. "They went down to the shelves, I assume. Looked through the books. So, either they found what they were looking for, or it's still in the books you sighed out in the week they didn't get access to."

"I've printed both lists," she pointed at the printer, that was making screeching noises. "It'll take a while, sorry. It's as old as me."

"Don't print the ones you didn't return. They were in your flat, and clearly it wasn't..."

"I haven't," she interrupted him. "They've looked through them, right? And you and the police did as well. What's the point?" She wasn't sarcastic, just mentioned it. He gave her an attentive look. In her place, he'd be irritated. He didn't appreciate people underestimate his intellect. She was clearly used to it.

The printer was straining and groaning, she was clicking some buttons. He peeked over her shoulder. She was changing her password.

"What was it before?" he asked. "Your date of birth?"

"Yeah," she snorted. "I honestly haven't thought it'd matter. Who cares how many novels of Vonnegut I read a week, right?"

"Don't put an exclamation mark in, it's the most commonly used punctuation mark in passwords," he said, and she snorted again.

"Well, not everyone is a Sherlock Holmes," she whispered in a fake conspiratory whisper, and he looked at her in surprise. She smiled to him. "They won't guess. I bet they only got in this time because of this."

She nodded towards a sticky note with the password on the corner of the monitor. _He hadn't noticed it before. That was inexplicable. Was he distracted? By what?_

The printer finally finished its labours, and Sherlock picked up the still warm sheets. 62 items in the first list, 13 in the second.

"Let's start with the ones from the last week," he ordered, and she readily jumped up on her feet. She was still smiling with the corners of her lips. _He didn't expect her to enjoy it. She had shown all signs of anxiety before. He'd expected her to wish her predicament to end as quickly as possible._ Sherlock blocked the considerations regarding her unexpected emotional state. It mattered not. They needed to find the memory stick.

* * *

There was nothing in the books. Nothing hidden in them, no markings, no codes. Ms Leary closed the last one - _The Idiot_ by Dostoevsky - and passed it to him for the second checking. By book twenty he realised he hardly needed to check after her, but he still did. She insisted.

"Well, that was disappointing," she drew out. They were sitting on the floor of the library, she had her legs crossed, he was leaning his back on the shelf.

He desperately needed a cigarette. Nothing made him itch for smoke more than the frustration of an unsuccessful effort. Three hour effort, by the way. Ms Leary was looking at him, clearly expecting instructions. He had nothing. Her trusting attentive eyes on him made him almost livid.

Sherlock jumped on his feet and started pulling his coat on. She rose as well.

"I don't know!" he suddenly hissed at her, and she jerked her eyebrows up.

"Pardon?"

"I don't know what's next! That's what you were going to ask, weren't you?" She nodded, still studying his face. "I don't like not knowing," he gritted through his teeth.

He jerked the scarf, tangled in the knot, and jerked again.

"Don't blame yourself," she suddenly said softly. "There's really nothing else to do. We checked the flat, we checked the books. Either the Russians, and the British secret service are wrong, and I don't have it, or one of them has gotten it already."

Sherlock stared at her. _He did not blame himself! What a nonsense!_ She gave him another reassuring smile, and he saw her hand twitch, as if she was going to touch his, but then she pulled it back.

"We need to go back to Baker Street." His tone was irked. "In the evening Mycroft will bring us Mr Thorington's file, and we will have more information. Perhaps, your pub mate has already brought the memory stick to his superiors. In this case Mycroft can ensure that at least our compatriots would leave you alone."

"That would solve half of my problems," she chuckled, and put on her coat.

* * *

"Mr Holmes?" she called after him when they were walking along the corridor. "Do you eat?"

He looked at her sideways. She immediately blushed.

"Sorry. I mean... Um..." she muttered, and somehow he thought it funny.

"Yes, Ms Leary, what exactly did you mean by this question?" _What was it going to be? A pleasantly, surprisingly sharp answer? Or the blabber? What had she called it? Leary-Tourette?_

"I mean, I'm starving, and now that the adrenaline of our adventure is going down, I properly crave fish and chips," she blurted out.

Twenty minutes ago her mobile had peeped. He assumed it was a reminder to eat. _Eating disorder, indeed._ Sherlock gave her a small smile.

"Let's go, Ms Leary. You'll eat, I'll think." He pushed the exit door open.

"Sounds lovely," she said, walking after him. He threw her a look over his shoulder, and she smiled widely, meeting his eyes.

He asked himself many times afterwards why he hadn't noticed the van. The men stepped ahead, one pressed a gun into his side, another grabbed the woman.

"Get in, or your mate gets an extra hole in his body," the latter hissed into Ms Leary's ear - _almost unnoticeable Slavic accent, hidden under East London pronunciation -_ and Sherlock saw her frantically widened eyes and half open mouth, before a black bag went over her head.

She didn't fight.

"Move," the first one pushed Sherlock towards the van. A bag followed, and Sherlock hit the floor of the car. The doors banged, and it moved.

"Wren?" he asked, but she was quiet.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**


	6. Moving Vehicle

**Trigger warning :** **this chapter contains non-graphic descriptions and allusions to sexual assault and violence. Reader discretion might be advisable.** **Nothing outside rating T, though.**

* * *

Wren had been beaten up twice in her life. First time, when she was assaulted. There were two of them. Drunk boys. They were from the neighbourhood, from the estates. She'd even vaguely known them, at least her Mum knew the mother of one of them. These days, he was in jail; the other one moved somewhere. She often thought it was good they beat her up first, she was almost unconscious when they… did it to her. They were drunk out of their minds too. Never hid their faces. She told her father who they were right away. They were arrested within an hour. She didn't want to think what was done to them at the station.

The second time she was two years older. This time it was a local drug dealer sending a message to her Dad. They were thorough, but mostly aiming to leave as many bruises as possible. No sexual assault. She passed out pretty quickly, thank goodness.

As much as she wanted to forget, no matter how much therapy she'd had, she couldn't stop the memories of pain flooding her mind at the moment. All 165 of her IQ were flaring up, scenarios rushing in front of her eyes. She clenched her teeth, and squeezed her eyes. Unnecessary, of course, in the darkness of the cloth bag.

After the second beating she woke up in the hospital, and saw her Dad crying drunk tears in a chair near her.

" _You were a smart girl, Wrennie," he slurred out. "You did everything right. Didn't fight'em. Never fight'em… It'll be only worse… Just be quiet..."_

"Wren!" the detective's voice came through the thick fog in her mind, and Wren took a spasmodic breath in. "Wren! Do you hear me?! Wren!"

Handcuffs cut into her wrists. She needed to ground her mind. She was feeling a panic attack coming. She couldn't afford to lose control, she'd thrash and scream, and she had to stay quiet. _Her Da told her to be quiet._

"Wren, you need to focus. Focus on my voice."

He had a nice voice. _All of him was nice. So cool, so detached, so unintrusive._ Clean, ironed shirts, polished shoes, beautiful, long fingered hands. _So clean, so safe…_

 _Pain, pain was coming._ She suddenly remembered the disgusting sound her ribs had made when breaking, and a gurgling noise escaped her throat.

"Wren, listen to my voice. You are clever, Wren. You can do it. Focus. I can get us out, I promise, but I need you to help me."

The ringing in her ears was growing louder, and she was shaking. And still, a minuscule part of her mind continued its usual analysis. She would be able to do it, to hear him. Just like he said. She just needed to let the empathy turn on. Wren took a deep breath in, it was shuddered, obstructed in her throat, but she felt stuffy air come into her esophagus and lungs.

She slowed down the racing thoughts, and tried to concentrate. _He was calm. He was speaking slowly. Meaning, they had time._ He wasn't moving, she couldn't hear anything. Or maybe it was the ringing in her ears. She needed to reduce the ringing.

"Wren, listen to me. Focus on where we are. We are in a van, Mercedez Sprinter, 2014. They put handcuffs on both of us. Standard police issue. I can get us out. I'll open the door, and we'll have to jump. Do you know how to jump out of a moving car?"

"No, I don't know… I don't want to jump, it'll hurt..." she heard her own weak voice. _She'd always been weak. Bad in PE. Weak, pale. Disgusting._

"Wren, I will tell you how, and you will do everything right. Don't worry."

Did he realise how relieved he sounded? Probably not, he, after all, praised himself on having no emotions. That's what he liked to think about himself, wasn't it? What was it on John Watson's blog? " _I have been reliably informed that I don't have it."_ He liked to think he had no heart. A machine, not a man. Except, machines didn't worry about some unimportant - _ugly, ugly, disgusting -_ gingers stuffed in a bag, on the floor of a van with them, and machines didn't sound happy that the aforementioned gingers finally answered.

Her mind whirred, and whirred, and then she bit down into her bottom lip, drawing blood, tasting it, letting herself feel the pain. _Her Da was wrong. There was nothing right about being quiet. Fighting, she had to start fighting._

"Tell me what to do..." she rasped out.

"Angle your body forwards and to the side. Away from the car and other traffic. Jump body first." Did he know how tense his voice was? _Machines didn't feel concerned for gingers._ "Try to keep your head and arms tight to your body. Roll, don't fall. Wren?"

"Yes… When?"

"I'll tell you when."

There was some noise, rustling. Wren started taking slow measured breaths with open mouth. _Tea, she would have tea. They would get out of this, and she would have tea. She'd sit in the armchair in front of his fireplace, and he would make her tea again. Honey, there would be honey in it, and cream. And maybe he'd play violin._ She'd read John's blog last night. She wanted to know what she'd gotten herself into. _God, was it really just yesterday?_ She didn't read newspapers; they made her anxious, and sick in the stomach. The world was going to hell. Global warming, terrorists, rape, murder, all those children dying... people were demons. She didn't know who he was when she came to him, just a person Mrs Hudson could reference to. She had read John Watson's blog last night. _Last night… Was it her last night?_

"Wren, on the count of three. I'll open the door. I'll take off your bag, you'll be blinded by light. You will just need to do it. I took my handcuffs off, but I won't have time to take off yours. I'll hold you, and we will jump together. Repeat what you have to do."

Her mind filled with schematics of the fall. If she died now, she'd never tell him that she had spacial cognition, and photographic memory. _She wanted to impress him._ If she died now, he'd never know.

"Forward and to the side. Away from traffic. Arms and head tucked in tightly. You will hold me, I have to keep my eyes closed."

"Good girl."

There was a pause, and Wren squeezed her eyes.

And then…

"Now!"

The bang of a door. The gush of air. The brush of the cloth over her face. Light through the lids. A pair of strong arms around her. And the fall.

* * *

"Wren! Wren! Open your eyes!"

She tried, she really tried. The light was blinding. And the pain in her right shoulder was as well.

"Wren, we need to get up!"

Brakes screeched at the background, and her eyes flew open. She immediately blinked several times. His face was immensely close. _He had such beautiful eyes. What even was this colour? Viridian? Eton blue?_

Cars were stopping, someone was running to them. She sat up, her head swam. They were in a ditch.

"Wren..." _That was a relieved exhale. Did he realise he just breathed out her name? Like in a romance novel. That was funny._ She giggled. _Was it funny?_ Was that her blood on her? So much of it, too. She had never seen it before. She'd lost consciousness both times. There'd been paper cuts, and cooking, but she'd never seen the result of any serious injury inflicted on her. She'd always wake up in a hospital, in bandages. Everything was so white in hospitals.

"Are they gone?" she rasped out, and he nodded. He was kneeling in front of her, a mobile already in his hand. There was a tone, and then the familiar voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade answered.

All her senses were sharpened. The grass was bright, green. His jacket was torn. Why was she seeing the jacket? Where was the coat? His cheekbone was bleeding. Her upper lip was swelling.

He was talking to Lestrade, and she just stopped caring.

She threw her arms around his neck, the first sob wracking her body. _She wouldn't blame him if he pushed her away. Nothing's more frustrating than an overreacting woman._ _Disgusting sentiment._ She was smearing her blood on him. _Disgusting Wren._ His left arm went around her, the mobile still pressed to his ear in the right hand. He squeezed her tightly, and she let herself cry. She even decided to allow herself continue imagining that he was pressing his face into her hair, and that his arm was pulling her in more and more tightly.

* * *

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{Romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

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	7. Greg Approves

Greg wasn't having a good day. It started with his electric razor chewing on his face, and leaving an angry red spot on his jaw. The traffic was hell, the coffee tasted odd. The first news when he got to work was a robbery in Edmonton. It was the same MO like two months ago, which made it a serial robbery, and Greg hated serial robberies. It always felt like they were taunting him, and that pissed him off.

When his mobile rang and Sherlock's number popped up, Lestrade groaned. It was never good news.

"Lestrade," Greg announced in a voice of a man to be hanged.

"Inspector, we were kidnapped. We are alright, we jumped out of the moving vehicle. I believe Ms Leary dislocated her shoulder, but otherwise we are unscathed."

What?! Ms Leary as in the skinny redhead whose flat had been apparently wrecked by Russian special forces? As in 'a modest, unassuming librarian,' according to Sherlock?!

"Do you call all this crimson Niagara unscathed?" Lestrade heard Ms Leary's sarcastic voice, right into Sherlock's mobile. Did they have their heads pressed together?

"Do go back to your crying, Ms Leary. It is supposed to decrease stress levels." Lestrade was prepared to yell at the detective for the insensitivity, when he heard Ms Leary's response.

"I don't like the snot. And I'm smearing my blood on your shirt." Was she joking? It properly sounded that way.

"Help yourself," Sherlock deadpanned. Was that a bloody giggle she gave him?! "Inspector, I need you to make arrangements, so we are not tediously questioned, and we need an ambulance here. And we will need escort. That is until my brother sends his 'boys.'" Sherlock's tone was sardonic.

"Oh no!" Ms Leary emitted a fake terrified outcry. "Is your brother coming? And I'm not dressed properly."

"You're bleeding for your country. He'll be delighted." Lestrade had half a thought to check if he happened to run a fever.

The detective gave him the coordinates, and hung up. Greg stared at the screen for a bit, and then went to get a car.

* * *

When he arrived, Sherlock and Ms Leary were sitting on the back of an ambulance, blanket around her shoulders, and of course none on the detective.

"Inspector, you took your time." Sherlock gave him one of his dismissive lines.

"I'm sure it's the traffic," Ms Leary pronounced mollifyingly, and Sherlock threw her a look down his nose. Interestingly, no rude remark followed.

Both looked battered, there were stitches on Sherlock's cheekbone, Ms Leary was cradling the right arm in a sling. Sherlock's coat was thrown over her shoulders. Greg considered rubbing his eyes.

"What happened?" Lestrade stared at the two, who immediately exchanged looks.

"We would prefer to go back to Baker Street at the moment, inspector. I can answer all your questions there. I hope you brought your gun. Our Russian friends seem to be rather determined to have a small chat with Ms Leary, we wouldn't want to risk it."

"How did you get out? Where are they? What do they want from her?!" Lestrade cried out, losing his bottle. The detective sighed, and fixed the collar of his coat near Ms Leary's cheek. She slightly jerked and stared at him in shock.

"Are you planning to ask me more questions while the woman who had just been kidnapped, handcuffed, and then jumped out of a moving car is sitting here, shaking from cold and emotional ordeal?"

If Lestrade didn't know the prick, he'd almost believe the seemingly sincere concern on the detective's face.

"Oh don't give me this porky," Greg scoffed, and Ms Leary - to his utter surprise - snorted a small laughter.

"He almost had me too! But yeah, I doubt that's why Mr Holmes doesn't want to talk." Lestrade gave her an attentive look. She was indeed shaking, coming down after the stress, and clearly was cold, but the eyes were sane.

"And here comes Queen and country," Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade saw a black Jag drive through the police lines and then stop near them.

Three men in black suits came out, presented their IDs - Sherlock gave them his usual scanning look - and then he softly nudged Ms Leary towards the car.

* * *

"Sherlock, why did you even call me on it? If your brother's sending his men..." Lestrade scratched the back of his neck.

"I need you on this case. It makes no sense, and I don't trust Mycroft's men. And his methods, for that matter." Sherlock leaned in to Greg's face, keeping an eye on Ms Leary at the same time. One of the suits opened a door for her, and she climbed into the car with a shy smile.

"I feel like we're missing something. It just doesn't fit," Sherlock whispered, and Lestrade met his eyes.

"What doesn't?"

"Ms Leary. I can understand state secrets, information leaking on a memory stick. I don't understand why her. And I don't understand why I didn't notice the password and the van."

"What password and a van?" Greg was feeling increasingly confused. The question seemed to shake Sherlock out of some frantic thoughts.

"Nevermind this. I need you, Lestrade. I need fresh perspective. I have a puzzle piece that doesn't fit this spy game, and I think your ordinary, dull mind is what I need here."

"Well, thank you," Greg sneered. He wondered what would the prick do if Greg refused him one of these days. He sighed. "You go to Baker Street, I'll follow."

The detective nodded absent-mindedly, already deep in his thoughts, and walked away towards the Jag.

* * *

Lestrade walked by the suits standing on guard inside Mrs Hudson's hall, after presenting his ID, and went upstairs.

Ms Leary was sitting on Sherlock's sofa, in flannel pyjamas with cheery looking acorns, blanket around her shoulders, a mug of tea clenched in her hands.

"Please sit down, inspector," Sherlock invited and pointed at the chair. It was usually facing the fireplace, but this time it had been turned, and Lestrade would sit face to face with Ms Leary if he followed Sherlock's hardly veiled command.

The detective was standing by the window, facing the room. He'd changed as well, into another of his ridiculous posh suits, and a starched shirt, that always made Greg feel like he'd spent a night in the nick for drunk and disorderly and looked it.

"Alright," Lestrade agreed begrudgingly and sat down. The redhead gave him an encouraging smile, and then threw a slightly confused look at the detective.

"Should I make tea?" she asked, clearly trying to smooth down the prick's behaviour.

"You, Ms Leary, are now to... do your thing. That's what Inspector is here for." Sherlock's eyes roamed her face.

"Pardon?" Her eyebrows jumped up.

"That empathy that you claim your possess, that, supposedly, is scientifically observable in 2% of general population, I want to see it in action. I needed someone I know. Inspector is a perfect test subject, he's all sentiment. So, show me."

Lestrade felt the painfully familiar urge to chin the detective, rising from the very heart of him. So, he was not asked to come as an 'another pair of eyes.' He was a bloody guinea pig!

"Mr Holmes, I can't… I don't do what you do, where you observe and make deductions…." the girl mumbled.

"No?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied her. "Then what is it that you do? What makes you special? Why you?"

"I already told you, I don't know..." she protested weakly.

"Sherlock, leave the girl alone..." Lestrade started.

"Shut up, inspector. Ms Leary is very much capable of taking care of herself. She has an intellect of 160..."

"165," the girl blurted out, and then winced back.

"Ah, 165." Sherlock gave her one of his sly smiles. "Even better. And she told me a lot of fascinating things about me during our first meeting. She is good under duress. She is a good crime solving companion. And she is distracting." The detective's voice grew unpleasant, and he stepped to the sofa. The girl pressed her back into it, looking alarmed. Lestrade was going to interfere, when Sherlock suddenly hissed at her, "Why didn't I notice the password on your computer?! Why didn't I notice the van? What is it about you that is so… disruptive?!" The last word was almost a shout, and she suddenly leaned ahead, right to Sherlock's face.

"Nothing! Nothing is disruptive about me! You just like me, and don't know how to handle it!"

The silence hung in the room, and Lestrade suddenly thought he was in a for a show. The show included Sherlock's slacking jaw, boggled eyes, and then those fish like movements he was now making, opening and closing his mouth.

The girl deflated immediately, and her cheeks started to burn.

"I don't mean, you fancy me, or anything..." she mumbled, looking embarrassed, but not taking her eyes off the detective's face. "But… I know exactly how you feel. Like you don't have to make concessions, like you can just be yourself, and it's like…" She wiggled her fingers near her temple. "Like there's less noise in your mind, because you don't have to keep it all inside… You like being around me because your mind is at peace, and it bothers you, becasue you don't understand. But once you accept it, I assure you, the disruptions will stop."

"I. Do. Not. Like. You." The detective's voice was low and menacing.

"Not the way inspector here does, who keeps looking at my neck, no." Lestrade jerked and started industriously looking anywhere but at the neck. What could he do? He was a neck man. And hers was long, and there were small curls on it, and she had nice shoulders! "But you enjoyed having me around, and… I loved it too." She finished shyly, and then Sherlock squared his shoulders, and looked her over.

And then Lestrade felt it was his jaw's turn to drop. The prick smiled! With warmth! Blimey, it was possible - with a big 'maybe' written all over it - to call this small smile… maybe… tender?

"Brava, Ms leary. Brilliant deductions." The git was as much as purring! Like a bloody... alligator!

"Not deductions, Mr Holmes. Empathy," she corrected, and gave out a small giggle.

"Do the two of you need a room?" Lestrade asked, shifting his eyes between them, and Sherlock turned to him.

"Actually, yes, inspector. You can go now. Ms Leary and I will be dancing."

"What?!" Lestrade and the girl asked at the same time.

"I counted more than twenty DVDs with video classes in your flat." The detective smiled even wider. "There was a pair of ballet shoes you meticulously preserved, in a box, with proper lining, and in a cloth bag. They are new, hardly used. So, bought just after you reached your current shoe size. Size three, as I see. So, around fifteen. I assume you dropped out of the dance school after the assault. It's a typical reaction."

Lestrade saw the girl grow pale, and nod shakily.

"But you still love dancing. You're in a good shape, but the muscles are inconsistent with yoga that you attend. Clearly, you are uncomfortable with male touch, so you practice at home. But you are comfortable with me. So, shall we?" He stretched his hand to her, and she gawked at it.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade felt there had to be a limit! "She's just been kidnapped, handcuffed, and then thrown out of a bloody moving car. She needs a healthy dose of tranquilizers, and lots of sleep!"

"Tranquilizers won't work, because of the red hair." Sherlock dismissed the inspector. "Meaning her mind will just continue working. The last thing one needs with an IQ of 165. All we can do is to wait for Mycroft. And besides, Ms Leary clearly approves of my plan."

Lestrade looked at the girl, who'd shaken off the blanket, put her mug aside, and was now standing in front of the detective, as eager as a puppy who'd been shown a leash.

"Alright. And that's my cue to leave," Greg summarised, and headed to the door.

He marched down the stairs, shaking his head. He considered Sherlock a mate - given a prickish and a mental one, but still a mate. He'd never of course hoped Holmes to find the perfect woman, but would you bloody look at that?! Except the world wasn't ready for their offsprings, that's for sure!

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

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 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

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 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	8. Two

**A/N: This chapter is of double length. Though being quite fond of reviews for each of my chapters *wink wink nudge nudge* I decided that chopping this one in two would lessen the impact on your nerves, my dearies. So here it is… ;)**

 **Love,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

"What are we dancing?" Wren asked, and the Detective opened his hand in front of her.

"Tango."

"Tango?!" That was the last thing she expected.

"Nine out of twenty DVDs you had in your flat were tango tutorials. The rest were assorted. I made a logical deduction. And..." His long fingers slowly closed around Wren's hand. "I am quite fond of it."

Wren suddenly felt very jolly, and laughed. "Because despite general opinion, it's not about sex. It's about..."

"Precision," the Detective finished her phrase, and she nodded.

 _Tango's an art made with two bodies, but it's never about the contact. It's about connection._

The Detective made a step back, and Wren let him lead her around the chair that Inspector had just occupied. She even didn't mind that she was barefoot, in PJs, and a bathrobe, while the man in front of her was in one of his impeccable suits, and his shoes were shiny. While walking backwards, he bent down and quickly spun the wheel on his iPad. For some reason she expected _Por La Cabeza_ , something of the classics, but it's Gotan Project _Tango Santa Maria._ For a second it felt wrong. Too modern, too much base, too fast. And again, somehow she just didn't anticipate the Argentinian.

But with the very first step it made perfect sense. The music went on, Wren felt it wash over them, and they just stood. And then the second long fingered hand lay on her back, just above the waist, and he made the first step back, and then even his shoes that she just couldn't stop thinking about became so very appropriate. She slid her bare foot ahead, following him, and then she felt that moment when the movement of one's partner would break, and he strained the right hand, and she braced herself. He shifted ahead, and she anticipated it, answered, and reciprocated. He brought his foot back, and she mirrored the move, her toe sliding on the floor, and... step. And then another, his elbow changing the angle, foreshadowing the one after that.

Tango was indeed about precision, and skill, and connection, and it was so magnificently easy with him!

He was right, of course. She loved dancing, she always did. But after that first assault, she could never do it again, not if she knew a man could approach her while she danced, or even if one could just see her. She was walking home from a do that night, when they dragged her into the back alley. But it hadn't been about the circumstances of what had happened, it was just generally her inability to get close to a male. All she sensed was danger. But not with the man in front of her.

 _And not with the man three weeks ago. Shut up!_

When they had gotten back to Baker Street he took a shower, and now he was even cleaner, and crispier than usual, in his starched shirt, and faceless suit.

On an inhale he stepped closer, and because her mind wandered - when didn't it? - she missed the cue, and he was suddenly closer. And still it didn't feel scary. Because as soon as the distance between them was smaller, he slightly released her hand, minimising the sense of threat. He was not frightening her, because he made an effort not to. And something told her, this unintrusiveness wasn't just for her sake.

They matched. They clicked. They moved together. No tension, no anxiety. Just two people with the same goal, in the same state of mind. Focused and synchronised, because they chose to, and allowed themselves, using the skill that they both possessed, and as Wren suspected, both had very little chance to apply. And despite the music, it felt to her like they moved in silence. And then Wren understood that it was her mind that was silent. It was at peace.

To test her theory, she shifted more sharply on the next step, and when he pulled her towards him in the usual movement, she let her knee bend and her leg fly up, brushing at his thigh.

There was no alarm in her mind.

"How is your experiment going, Ms Leary?" The Detective's tone was sarcastic, but lacked malice.

She traced a wide arch on the floor behind her with her foot, and smiled.

"I'm still comfortable."

"Excellent. Now do concentrate on the dance. You're still proficient enough to keep up when you indulge your disorganised 165 IQ, but I'd prefer your full attention."

"Oh do shut up. You're putting me off with your chatter," Wren muttered, trying to best impersonate him, quoting what she remembered from John Watson's blog, and he emitted what she couldn't call anything else but a low giggle.

And then he dunked her back, in a strictly controlled flamboyant gesture, and she relaxed, allowing one arm hang down to the floor, precisely, as if limply, another one around his shoulders, her hand splayed on the tight trapezoid muscles. He was lean, with a body of a ballet dancer.

Some time ago she thought that if she ever were to let a man near her, he would be exactly of this sort: tall, slender, graceful, reserved. Before the night three weeks ago she would have said that was the kind of man she could allow to touch her, to dance with her, to hold her close.

* * *

 _Three weeks ago..._

" _Evening." The voice is low, velvet, and soft, and she lifts her eyes. The man standing above her is large, she'd even say, massive, heavy. There's a dark beard, and a long nose, and the military cut jacket, with large square pockets on his chest, that makes him look even bigger. That's six four of height, at least._

 _There are five pieces of chips in her basket, three large ones, a broken half, and one of those crunchy, small ones. She has a plan of how she's going to finish them. There's no water in her glass, and asking for another makes no sense._

 _She gives the man a tight smile, with just her lips. He probably needs her vinegar. Not all tables have it, and she suppresses emotional discomfort from it. When will she finally learn to mind her own business? How's that her concern? People can find themselves vinegar if they need it. Say, this bear-man did. She's almost ready to pick up the sticky bottle, when she realises he's looking at her, and not at anything else. He's focused on her. It's not a short term brush of gaze that she's used to. His eyes are blue, bright, outlined by long, fluffy lashes, and the thick black eyebrows._

" _I'm John. Can I sit with you?"_

" _Why?" She wonders if there are no other tables, and he's hoping she'd leave soon. If so, she'll of course run now, but she had the plan for the last chips._

" _I saw you from the booths..." He points behind his shoulder with his thumb, but his eyes are still on her. The corners of his lips are curved up, in some strange soft smile. "I'd like to talk. I think you're very interesting."_

 _She freezes. That's her normal reaction in social situation she's uncomfortable in, or doesn't understand. She's never chatted up in pubs. She's a skinny ginger in glasses, and grey clothes - the uptight, judgmental type, not the hidden vixen type._

" _Um..."_

 _He smiles wider. He has dark, silky hair, with silver strands on the temples, and above the forehead; probably down to his shoulders; it's gathered in a loose tail, several wavy strands around the face._

 _He's still not sitting down, waiting for her answer. And he's not leaving either. She isn't sure she wants him to._

" _Would you like another water?" He points at her glass. "I can grab one for you. Then, you'll be spared the discomfort of me buying you a drink." And that solves it._

 _She won't be under any sort of social obligation, and she'll get more water. She suddenly feels painfully thirsty, and nods._

 _He's back quickly, with her water, and a lager for him. He still pauses near the chair, throwing her a funny look from under a lifted eyebrow. It's a very theatrical gesture, film worthy. Roger Moore worthy. She nods again._

" _I work in a computer firm," he announces after the first sip of his lager. He licks the white foam off his upper lip. She doesn't think she's ever sat that close to a man as attractive as him. She's still not certain what's going on._

 _His masculinity should frighten her. He hung his jacket on the back of the chair, and pulled up the sleeves of a cashmere dark navy jumper. The forearms are muscly, covered in thick black hair, but he has elegant wrists, large hands, strong long fingers. The jumper underlines the muscles of the torso, and from under it peeks a white tee, and the coarse hair, below the shaved neck. The bottom line of the beard is neat and crisp. She should be frightened. She's suffocatingly warm, and her hands are shaking, and… she's excited._

" _I'm a librarian."_

" _Brill!" He grins from ear to ear. "What are you reading right now?"_

" _Why do you think I'm reading anything right now? Maybe I'm like a diabetic baker, can't have any of my own stuff." The joke is mediocre, and he doesn't fake much laughter, just gives out a low chuckle. If he's not lying and indeed finds her interesting, it'll take a few minutes to get used to this idea._

" _I don't know… I was just curious." He shrugs and takes another sip. "You're right. It could be just a job for you."_

"Moby Dick _. I'm reading_ Moby Dick. _And last week it was Murakami, and Agatha Christie before that. I have no system." She'd like to have some impressive answer, and maybe there's a way to flirt in such conversion. But she doesn't know how people flirt. And whether it's even this kind of conversation. When he said 'interesting,' did he mean as a… friend? Random stranger to chat with? Is he bored?_

 _Her usual empathy kicks in. It's not about chatting with a random stranger. His eyes move over her face, and sometimes down her neck, staying above the collarbones. It feels as if he were brushing the tips of warm fingers to her skin._

 _The situation is so unusual, that she for once doesn't trust her intuition._

"Moby Dick _is one of my favourite books, since I was a kid. My Dad used to read it to me. I don't even know if it's a good book..." He rubs the bridge of his nose with his index finger. "I guess, it's just the fond childhood memories. But I do like Murakami..._ Dance, Dance, Dance _is my favourite._ " _She isn't sure what to say. She realises she's just staring at him, but he doesn't seem to mind._

 _She can feel how relaxed he is, how self-assured. She feels acute envy. She'd like to be that comfortable in her skin. There's some sort of mellowness to him. She can sense a storm raging in him too, but it's old, and there's certain acceptance in him. It's Jekyll who peacefully coexists with his Hyde. They have cuppa twice a week together. Hyde is retired, Jekyll has forgiven himself. Or maybe, all this is complete rubbish that she imagined. After all, empathy is only theoretically hypothesised._

" _I haven't started the book yet..." She tries to speak, but she's croaky. She has to clear her throat. The more she thinks about it, the more she wants the conversation to go well. On the other hand, where can it actually 'go?' She doesn't know, but the more she cares, the less she knows what to say. Is she arsing it up even before she started any sort of interaction?_

 _When he drinks, his throat moves, and she can't help but admire the tendons. It's biological, she thinks. He is all male, testosterone filled, animalistic, but something in the slow controlled movements lets her balance on the very edge of full scale anxiety._

" _Do you want to talk about something else?" he offers lightly. "If not books… I'm not good with music, but we can chat about Adele."_

" _Adele?" Parroting is easier than coming up with her own lines._

" _Yeah, she's on every radio now, and in papers. I know what she looks like." He's still smiling. Why isn't he bored with her by now? She can feel he's as engaged as he was when he came up to her. Surely, by now he should know he made a mistake._

" _And what do you think?" she asks, and lifts her glass to her lips. "Does she look good?"_

" _I haven't thought of her in these terms…" He actually gives it a thought, slowly moving the tip of his finger along the ridge of his glass. "I guess. She looks human. That's always attractive for me."_

" _Do I look human?" Damn her Leary-Tourette._

" _You look..." He stops, chuckles, and rubs the back of his neck, his laughing eyes on her. He makes a pensive hum like noise, but she's suddenly sure he knows how this sentence ends. He's just not telling her._

" _Are you censoring your answer in your head, wondering what would freak me out, and what wouldn't?" That's the first man with whom she's having a conversation like that. Before, they were friends of friends, thoroughly checked, and safe. Sex was never fun. Why is she thinking about sex?!_

" _Yeah… I don't want to cock it up."_

" _What 'it?'" She's studying his relaxed face, and then looks down at the hand on the table. The fingers aren't moving, no fidgeting, no tension._

" _This..." He gestures between them with his half empty glass. Will he leave when the lager is done? "I'm still hoping you'd give me your number."_

 _She can. She is shocked by the thought, but she can. He will call, or text. They would go out… Maybe? Is that what people do? A date? Or maybe just a one off? Or not, because people don't exchange numbers when they don't plan to have anything but a casual shag. Or do they?_

" _Why?"_

 _Why? Why? Why?_

" _Because I think we'd be great together. You and I..."_

 _He suddenly moves his hand to her on the table, and flips it opening the palm in front of her. She wonders if it's warm. She catches the smell of juniper. She has a juniper scented candle from last year's Christmas. It's probably some complicated cologne, but she recognises juniper._

 _Her hand in his looks small, and his palm isn't warm. It's scorching. He doesn't close his fingers around hers, allowing her to make the first move. And she does. She takes his hand and pulls him closer to her. He readily leans over the table. Up close he is even more beautiful._

" _Would you like to go to my place?" She knew the moment she touched him. Tipping point._

" _I'd love to."_

* * *

 _In the cab they are sitting close, and they're both quiet. She pretends to be looking through the window, he's watching her._

" _I just got promoted," he speaks, and she turns to face him. The shadows in the dim cab make him surreally beautiful. They lie on the cheekbones, and under the eyes, from the lashes. They make his face softer, or maybe it's the tender smile. "It's a constant position, I won't have to move in the next seven years. If I'm lucky, maybe not ever. I was celebrating it alone in the pub. Just felt like being alone today. And…" He picks up her hand, and his thumb rubs her knuckles. "I'm having a very good day today, you know? Everything sort of… settled in the last few months. The job, the flat, and I even got couple plants… I don't know why I'm telling you that."_

" _Are you trying to tell me I'm a part of this karma benefit plan of yours?" The dimness makes her bolder. Or maybe, he does. Or maybe, she really wants to kiss him._

" _God, I hope so," he breathes out, and chuckles. By now she knows it doesn't mean he actually finds it funny. "I'd hate to… I'd hate if you weren't. I want you to stay."_

 _He pulls her hand, just an invitation, and she leans in, and kisses him. And then he kisses her back. Her nose is full of juniper, and probably soap; she can taste the lager, but it doesn't throw her off. He kisses better than any man she's had, but she assumes he's just more experienced._

 _They enter her flat, and he's constantly moving, either kissing her, or his hand brushes at her skin somewhere, and it's like he's a morphine pump in a hospital. He doesn't let her return to reality, or get scared, or even understand fully what's happening. In the hall she tries to hang her jacket, but he takes it out of her hands, and throws it on the floor. He then leans in, and this kiss is deeper. His own jacket falls on the floor too, something jingles in the pocket. His hands are on her shoulders, and she pushes her fingers into his hair. The string holding it unties, it scatters on the shoulders. It's clean, no product, and it's very thick, and heavy. She's never touched a man with longer hair before. From the ruffling, she can smell the shampoo better. It's grassy._

 _She moves away, and he lets her, but one hand stays, and then shifts higher, on the side of her neck._

" _I don't have any alcohol in the house… Just tea… I'm intolerant..." What are the social conventions in such case?_

" _I don't' want to rush you..." he starts speaking before she's done. "Wren, we can just go how you want it. Do you want tea? There must be a nice sofa somewhere here. We can talk about books, or Adele, or... childhood pets."_

 _They're standing in her hall, and she hasn't turned on the light. She can see him pretty well in the light from the streetlamp in the kitchen window._

" _Childhood pets?" How does one suggest a man to go straight to bed and have sex?_

" _I had a dog. Orcrist… He was thick." Another warm chuckle follows. He leans in, to her face, and whispers, "A proper moron. Would constantly get lost. We were on a trip to Scotland once, with my family, and spent the whole vacation looking for the poor sod." He laughs softly, and she steps closer. Her arms go around his middle._

" _I don't want to talk..."_

" _Thank God..." he breathes out, and catches her mouth._

* * *

 _He's walking her backwards, but he's going to the kitchen. She batters her hand on the wall, the light goes up, and the confused expression on his face is adorable._

" _You turned right, and the bedroom is straight ahead." She tentatively brushes the tips of her fingers along his neck._

" _That explains it." He throws her a look down his long nose. There're some mesmerising jolly sparks dancing in his eyes. "You don't strike me as a person who sleeps on a table. Or would like to have the first time on it."_

 _It takes her four seconds to understand what he means. He's patiently waiting. Her cheeks heat up, when she finally does. Is she supposed to warn him she's not good at this?_

 _They are in the bedroom - she doesn't remember getting there, she was busy pulling off his jumper - and then they are on her bed, and he lies down on her, and he is heavy, but still, she's not scared. She feels hot, and alive, and she arches into him, and there's still the white tee on him, and instead of wanting it to stay, she can't wait to touch his chest. Somehow that's where most of her lust and curiosity is focused right now. Maybe she's just not brave enough to think of other parts._

 _She's the one unbuckling his belt. She's unsuccessful, and scratches her finger on something sharp, and he's helping her. She's kissing his jaw meanwhile, and the beard scrapes at her lips. She's torn between wanting to explore this more, and just wanting more. He pushes his denim down, craning his neck, and looming over her, and then his fingers are moving fast on her belt. By then her shirt is unbuttoned, and the sports bra she's wearing feels non existent. His hand burns her skin. She has small tits, and really wants him to touch them more. And she wants him to like them._

 _He slides down, kissing her stomach, blindly pushing his trousers off the bed. The buckles clanks on the floor, and her head is spinning._

 _And then there is a generic ringtone. Just the monotonous noise, and she shakes her head trying to clear her mind, and all she feels is that she's suddenly cold. Because he's not on her anymore._

 _And then he's gone. Just a few mumbled excuses. He didn't ask for her number. She can still smell juniper on her skin for the next hour, and then she makes herself a bath with her lilac scented bubbles and soaks in it, until there're no more tears, and she has no voice left from the crying._

* * *

Wren opened her eyes and looked at the Detective.

"He left the memory stick in my flat. He wasn't after it when he came. He had it on him, and then he planted it there. And the Russians are looking for it."

The music still went on, but the man stepped back from her.

"Why?" His eyes were sharp, and she exhaled slowly.

"I've thought of it again and again, and I'm almost sure the first time I noticed the flat was searched was right after I'd met him. And the first few times they searched the kitchen and the bedroom. The only two rooms where we were together, and where we turned on the light."

"They were outside, watching," The Detective quickly deduced. "They followed him there, and searched those rooms first." Wren nodded, and then she plodded to his sofa, and wrapped the blanket around herself pulling it to her chin.

"Fascinating." The Detective stood frozen, his eyes distant. She could just see the cogs turning. "You think better when dancing."

"It's when one's mind is in balance," she mumbled in a dull voice. And then his mobile made a soft bleep noise.

He looked at the screen.

"It's from the gentlemen downstairs. We apparently have a visitor." His eyes ran the text.

"Oh?" Wren's voice sounded lifeless. She suddenly felt very tired. "Is it your brother?"

The door opened, and they both turned to look.

* * *

He looked the same. Well, that wouldn't be quite correct of an assessment. He looked like hell. Broken lips, half face swollen, and bruised, bandages around wrists. But definitely he looked like the man she had kissed in the cab. And the man who was murmuring something tender, while brushing his lips down her shoulder. And the man who left a memory stick with state secrets in her flat.

He was, indeed, clearly a John Crispin Thorington.

* * *

 _ **To be continued...**_


	9. A Whale in the Room

**The chapter is dedicated to my wonderful reader Just4Me. Thank you for your endless support and the comforting presence in my life. Every writer needs a reader like you!**

* * *

 _Six four. Many years in military. Substantial weight loss in the last month. Currently 13.5 stones. Beard trimmed in the last 24 hours. Still present smell of shower gel, and deodorant, covering the standard military disinfectant. Time after the last hair trim: approximately four weeks. Stiff movements, even after a large dosage of painkillers. Administered intravenously. Electricity burns on the wrists and neck. Potentially, several broken ribs._

 _Three weeks incarceration and torture. Already questioned and cleaned up by British secret services._

"Wren..." the man slowly breathed out.

Sherlock stepped between him and the sofa. "Mr Thorington, I presume."

The cold blue eyes shifted and met the detective's. "Mr Holmes Younger." _Uneven breathing. A hiss on the inhale. At least, four broken ribs._ "Do you mind if I come in?"

"I do, actually." _Unarmed. Severe limp in the right leg. Still, very capable physically - and extremely dangerous._

"I'm unarmed, Mr Holmes. And the men downstairs did let me in. After a ring from your brother. I'm still considered one of the good ones." A lopsided smirk decorated Mr Thorington's broken lips.

The woman behind Sherlock was very quiet. She might've been holding her breath. Or fainted. _Did people actually do that?_

"Ms Leary?" the detective asked, without turning.

"He can come in." Her voice was quiet, but didn't shake.

Sherlock stepped aside, still keeping his eyes on the man.

The man stepped into the room, and sat on the chair that Lestrade had been occupying just an hour ago. Sherlock closed the door and walked to his armchair. From it, he could see the man's back, and Ms Leary. She sat just as before, the blanket pulled to her chin, feet tucked under her. _Pupils dilated. Lips white._ Her eyes were roaming their visitor's face.

"Are you alright, Wren?" He had a low voice, and Sherlock noticed him lean ahead a bit. Ms Leary noticed too, and tensed visibly.

"Yes, just a strained shoulder."

"I'm sorry," the man answered, almost immediately. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"How did you escape?" Sherlock asked from his chair. A pause hung in the room. Sherlock suddenly craved a cigarette.

"I overheard them discuss bringing Wren in. I got out." That made Sherlock whip his head and stare at Thorington's back. _Three weeks of torture by the Russian special forces. He could've gotten out the whole time._

"You stayed to keep her safe," Sherlock pronounced slowly, and Ms Leary jerked and covered her mouth with one hand. Thorington turned and looked at the detective over his shoulder. There was an odd satisfied smile in the corners of his lips.

"As long as they had me, there was a chance they'd only watch. They were still hoping to get the information out of me. But they got impatient, and decided that direct interrogation would better than searching the flat."

"Three weeks..." Ms Leary whispered, and Sherlock saw the man's face grow softer. He turned back to her.

"It wasn't your fault. You were just in a wrong place, in the wrong time..."

"Why her?" Sherlock asked. The puzzle pieces still didn't fit. Thorington suddenly chuckled.

"Depends on what you're asking, Mr Holmes." His tone was almost believably light. The eyes of the man in the chair and the redhead were locked.

Ms Leary asked in a coarse voice, "He's asking why you approached me in a pub, and why out of all people you decided to hide the memory stick with me, and..."

"I didn't." Whatever Ms Leary saw in the man's face made her stop. She frowned, and studied his face. "I didn't approach you to plant the stick on you. I chatted you up in a pub." He barked a soft laughter. "That's what normal people do. They like a bird, and chat her up. And then I got a call that the Russians were after me, and I hid the stick. There was no hidden motive in why I came up to you in the pub."

 _Shoulders relaxed. Light tension in the tone. Embarrassed by the confession. No, by the circumstances of the confession. Uncomfortable in the company of another male in the room. Honest._

Ms Leary's lips parted slightly. She was scrutinizing his face. _Empath. IQ 165. She could see Thorington didn't lie._

The woman exhaled slowly through the rounded lips, and asked, "One question. Would you have allowed Russian secret services torture you for three weeks to save an innocent person, if it weren't me, but an overweight fifty year old man?"

Thorington chuckled again. _Defense mechanism. Self-deprecating humour. Self-hatred. PTSD._

"No."

She nodded, and dropped her eyes to her lap.

"I'm not a good man, Wren."

"I know what kind of man you are," she whispered. "Why did you approach me in the pub?"

Sherlock felt like reminding her she'd already asked that, but he realised the two people in his living room were leading their own conversation. The one he didn't understand. _Sentiment. Never had been his forte._

"I just couldn't let you finish your chips and leave," Thorington answered.

"Where's the memory stick?" Sherlock asked.

" _Moby Dick,_ " Ms Leary answered, and Sherlock looked at her. She finally returned his gaze for the first time since Thorington came in. _Eyes widened, spasmodic movements of throat._ "I figured it out while we were dancing. Like I said, Mr Holmes, that is when one's mind is finally in balance."

"Do you still have it?" Thorington asked, and she nodded.

 _That was... excruciating. Was that how it felt to others when he talked? Not understanding. To miss the boat. To be the last in the room to catch up._ Sherlock sucked a breath in.

And of course, she understood. And took mercy on him. Ms Leary, empathic, compassionate unassuming librarian looked at him and gave him a soft smile.

"In the pub we talked about favourite books. And… _Moby Dick_ was in my bag, I had just taken it out, I'd never read it. And he put the stick into it… But I never returned it to the library. I felt sentimental." She suddenly laughed. "It all happened because we both were sappy idiots."

Thorington's shoulders shook, in a silent laughter.

 _Book in a backpack. She'd never mentioned it. Carried it with her. Backpack clutched in her handcuffed hands. Backpack sliding on the floor of the van on a turn. Backpack in her hand again, when he wrapped his arms around her, and they jumped out of the car. The backpack thrown carelessly on the floor of his flat, right there, in the second bedroom._

"I assumed you'd open it, and find the stick, and the note with instructions to contact my superiors, Wren. I was sort of hoping for a quick death in the hands of Russkies, and not three weeks in some damp basement. You did have the bloody book in your backpack!" There was no real reproach in Thorington's tone. More so, he kept on chuckling, and shaking his head theatrically.

"I couldn't bring myself to read it. And then I forgot it was there. You said it was your favourite, and I felt so… I just couldn't..." Her lips twisted.

"I've never read it in my life," Thorington answered, and she pressed her lips in a distressed line. "But I swear to you, that's the only thing I lied about. The other books, the music, the story with Orcrist..."

"Orcrist?" Sherlock asked from his spot.

"My dog. We talked about my childhood..." Thorington shifted on his chair. _Possible damage to the spine. Most injuries on the right side of the body. At least one of the Russians was left handed._ "Mr Holmes, would you give us some privacy?"

"Not until my brother is here. And not until the memory stick is in his possession. There's still a chance you've shot the two men downstairs, and are currently planning our cold-hearted murder." _He wasn't._

"He isn't." Ms Leary said, her eyes still on the face of the man in front of her.

She then exhaled purposefully, and shifted, taking a more comfortable position on the sofa.

"Exactly, how crazy are you?" she asked the man. "What sort of masochism is it, to let them… torture you for three weeks for a woman you haven't even shagged?"

Sherlock had the same question.

"I doubt I'm clinically insane, but to call me mentally healthy would be a stretch," Thorington answered. _Prominent tremour in both hands._ "I'm not violent though, and not a threat. No physically intimacy issues either."

Apparently, Thorington decided that ignoring Sherlock and just answering sincerely to the most personal questions was the way to get on Ms Leary's good side. Sherlock couldn't argue with the assessment.

Ms Leary swallowed with difficulty, and her hands danced under the blanket.

"And I'd really appreciate a cuppa." Thorington's voice was shaking with laughter.

"I'll put the kettle on." Ms Leary slowly slid off the sofa. Sherlock continued staring at Thorington's back. "Tea, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, please."

She quickly disappeared in the kitchen. Water ran, and the kettle was on.

"How do you take it?" she called from the kitchen.

"Cream, three sugars," Thorington answered.

Sherlock didn't bother. Considering her capabilities, she definitely knew his habits by now.

Cups and plates clanked. The cupboard door closest to the window opened, and Sherlock heard Ms Leary breathe out, 'Goodness, I forgot the cursed hand...' Sherlock smirked.

Thorington turned, together with the chair. The legs screeched on the floor.

He sat, relaxed, as if just enjoying the restful moment.

"You'll be relocated now, Mr Thorington. New city, new job, new name." Sherlock studied the man. Very little could be read in the face. _Except he was clearly distracted, listening to the woman's movements in the kitchen._

"Most likely." Thorington focused his attention on the detective. "Somewhere safe."

 _So, they understood each other._

"There's no such thing as safe when it comes to the MOD, Mr Thorington. There's always a chance someone will put something into your backpack."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man. _She wouldn't be safe. That was the reason. That was the reason he hated the sheer thought of her going with the man. Nothing else._

Ms Leary came back into the room, a mug in each hand, and froze in the doors. The men turned their heads, and Sherlock knew that they both were intently watching whom she'd go to first.

 _ **To be continued...**_

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

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 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

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 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

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* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	10. Hull, or Baker?

Mycroft utterly despised leaving his club, especially for the sake of taking care of such trivial matters, and he perhaps would've sent someone to retrieve the memory stick, if it hadn't been for the text.

 _Are we safe? Thorington is drinking my tea._

 _Sherlock_

Two things were worrisome, and it was two too many when it came to Sherlock. There had never been any 'we' before. John Watson was of course half of the previous 'we,' but he was a secure option. A woman was alarming. Also, remembering the name of another man - that was twice as alarming. It could have been explained, of course, by the case not being closed yet, and the details still remaining in Sherlock's mind, but again 'Thorington' and 'my tea.' Mycroft sighed.

He walked by the two men downstairs, marched up the stairs - third one squeaking, fifth worn out, seventh and eighth, one board loose in each - and pushed the door to the living room.

He had been right. That was - put plainly - a disaster.

The redhead was on the sofa, and if she pulled her knees any higher and any closer to her chest she'd crack her manubrium. She had a mug in her hands, and she'd had it for a while. The mug was cold - judging by the position of the fingers - and full.

Sherlock had drunk his in a rush, when it was still hot, and had burnt his tongue and the inside of his cheek, judging by the unconscious movements of his mouth.

The man in the chair hadn't touched his, and had put it under the chair.

Both men were looking at the woman when Mycroft entered, and only Sherlock lifted his eyes at him. The body language was obvious: one was possessive and hopeful; another one was trying to seem indifferent.

A disaster, indeed.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," the woman spoke in a low voice, and Mycroft finally decided to pay her some attention.

All the deductions, which his brother had of course made, rushed through his mind. What was it in Sherlock's texts from the first day? 'Ordinary librarian?'

Delicate artistic wrists, high cheekbones, cat like eyes, narrow elegant bridge of the nose. Proud set of head. Long neck. And the voice - soft, but confident. Oedipus would be so proud of Sherlock.

And of course, this composure in the face of danger and stress - so noble, so admirable. That was such an aphrodisiac for his brother who claimed that no aphrodisiacs existed for him.

Mycroft felt already exhausted, and the dance hadn't started yet. Speaking of which, Sherlock's iPod on pause mid- _Pa'Bailar_ by Bajofondo had sealed Mycroft's verdict. Sherlock either needed to be extracted as soon as possible, or Ms Leary's continuing presence in 221B Baker Street had to be ensured. Either way, the situation was clearly critical.

The question was, of course, whom she made tea for first.

"Evening, Ms Leary." Mycroft stepped ahead, and she started crawling off the sofa to shake his hand.

And a fey looking one, for that matter. Otherworldly, but very much corporeal. Perhaps, it was safer to remove her and the other man right now. They wouldn't need another expedition to a crack den any time soon, would they?

Her feet touched the floor, and both men jerked. So very telling, so very predictable. Thorington moved ahead, lifting his hand, as if offering support. Considering his state, that was quite unwise. He wouldn't want to reopen the stitches. Sherlock slightly shifted in the armchair, looking away from the room, as if something very interesting were happening in his fireplace.

"Please, do not get up, Ms Leary," Mycroft pronounced in a dull voice. "You have just been thrown out of a moving car. I suggest you rest."

She obediently moved back, wrapping the blanket around her. Mycroft felt Thorington's eyes on himself. The man could potentially kill all of them in twelve and a half minutes, using any three available objects in this room, neither being an obvious weapon. If Ms Leary followed him to Hull, where a quiet position in a financial analytical firm was already waiting for him - along with a wonderfully dull biography, and a Prius - she'd have to deal with intrusive memories, night terrors, temper outbursts, and 43% chance of developing a drug addiction.

If she stayed with his brother, the odds were the same, except the drug addiction was reality, and not a potentiality.

"It's in the backpack, in my room," Ms Leary volunteered the first line. The silence indeed was getting rather awkward. The men were calculating the ways to best each other, Mycroft was studying his umbrella. "I mean, in the other room..." she mumbled, and blushed.

"Ms Leary, would you mind stepping with me into _my_ room?" Sherlock suddenly returned to life, and jumped on his feet. Thorington moved - training or not, still surprisingly nimbly for a man with five broken bones - and although he was still in his chair, he was somehow between Ms Leary and the rest of the world. Again, if Ms Leary chose to reside in Hull from now on, she would have to establish personal boundaries to control her watchdog.

"Of course." The answer was quiet, but firm. She slid off the sofa, and plodded towards Sherlock, bare feet making noises on the floor.

And then her narrow hand brushed at Thorington's shoulder, fingertips momentarily stroking his skin above the jumper collar. Would you look at that! The beast had found his handler - and an adept one.

The redhead and the world's only consulting detective disappeared in Sherlock's bedroom, and Mycroft considered pulling out his phone. He had just set the new record in his _Angry Birds_ and just couldn't wait to beat it. Thorington sat in his chair, his eyes closed.

"Oh, Mr Holmes!" The jolly voice of Mrs Hudson came from the door, and Mycroft sighed. "Such a pleasure to see you. Could I get you a cup of tea, perhaps?"

Mycroft accepted his destiny and slowly lowered himself into Sherlock's armchair.

"Yes, please, Mrs Hudson."

"And you, John dear? Another one perhaps?" Mr Hudson sounded like any nurse in any film about the Second World War. Thorington smiled, and the old lady started as much as hyperventilating. There was a reason Thorington had been often sent to gather information when a woman was to be interrogated.

"No, thank you. I'm all set."

Mycroft wished he could say the same.

* * *

It took Sherlock fourteen minutes to persuade Ms Leary against moving to Hull. Pity, the town was quite picturesque.

The two walked back into the room. Her body language was screaming of her choice. Eyes not meeting Thorington's, rigid posture. Guilt over his torture. Mycroft gave her a marginally attentive look. She obviously found the man very attractive, and clearly, placed no less inexplicable importance on their 'episode.' Just as in his debriefing Thorington had claimed he did as well.

Mycroft was now prepared to change his opinion. Perhaps, she wouldn't be such a bad option for his brother. They clearly had enough rapport for him to make an effort to keep her, and for her to decide to stay.

"Could I have the same luxury, perhaps?" Thorington pronounced in a low voice, and Ms Leary's eyes flew to his face. "A wee bit of privacy?"

Mycroft remembered the man's file. Leicester, Highfields area. The Northern accent had been gone from his speech over the years of training, and yet - rhotic r's, and no sign of foot-strut split. How compromised emotionally was he exactly? And should they consider ways to restrain him?

"Please." Sherlock waved towards his bedroom, in a wide inviting gesture. Mycroft considered quietly dialing emergency in his pocket. It was surely a mad idea to aggravate Mr Thorington.

The man slowly rose from the chair. Mycroft was not for colourful metaphors, but the comparison with a moving mountain came to mind. The woman turned around and dashed back to Sherlock's bedroom. Thorington followed. Mycroft was starting to find it rather tedious. Now that it was clear that Sherlock was in no danger of having a meltdown, it was perhaps time to go back to _Diogenes._

Sherlock walked to the bedroom formerly belonging to Dr Watson, Mycroft checked his mobile. He heard Sherlock's phone receive a text in the other room, and there were a few seconds of silence, after which Sherlock appeared carrying a blue backpack made to look like a vintage police box.

"Here you go, brother dear." Sherlock pulled out a worn out copy of _Moby Dick_ , and opened it. The memory stick - grey, generic, and boring, just as all of the memory sticks they used in the MOD - was inside, together with a small note.

Sherlock stuffed the note in his trousers pocket. Mycroft decided that the fact was of no importance. He took the memory stick, and sighed.

"Do you still require my presence, Sherlock? Or should I leave you and Ms Leary to your dancing?" Mycroft couldn't help but gibe.

"Have a good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock's face was cold, and Mycroft wondered exactly how much his brother was now deviating from his previous normal, if he wanted Mycroft out of his flat so desperately.

* * *

Mycroft walked down stairs, some strange uncomfortable feeling nagging at his mind. He got into his Jag, and his assistant ordered the driver to move. Mycroft pulled out his mobile, but stared at the black screen.

"I need visual on 221B Baker Street," he spoke slowly, and Hattie looked at him in surprise. Mycroft suppressed a craving for Belgian chocolate. All those frustrating premonitions about Sherlock always made him peckish, and were unfortunately rarely wrong. "I need to know everything that's happening there."

"Is something happening there?" Hattie asked, and he nodded.

Something was about to blow up into his face, and he needed to be prepared.

 _ **To be continued...**_

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	11. One Done

The day was surely very stressful, Wren thought. That would be her sarcasm talking, by the way. _Pretending not to care was never a solution to any problem, since caring was all she could do._ Wren took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was happening in the room. A lot was, by the way.

Her poor 165 IQ was cataloguing so fast, that she could almost hear the rustling of files.

Sherlock… _Since when had he been moved into 'first name' category?!_ Tense in his armchair, face cold, pretending not to care. See above about this particular futile endeavour, of course. Wren wondered what irked him so much. She could feel his irritation like her own. _When didn't she?_ Was it… John? _Apparently, here Wren still had trouble with the first name basis._ Or the older brother?

Mycroft Holmes… One of the few people Wren had trouble reading. It felt like smashing into a wall while on a scooter. A person lacking her sensitivity would find it frustrating. She enjoyed it. The silence coming off him was so soothing! He gave her a cold, empty smile, and she nodded to him.

And finally, the man in the chair… Something clenched in Wren's stomach, above the navel. Of course, it hadn't been his words that convinced her of his honesty, it was that bloody empathy of hers. He was giving out a different vibe now. He had been relaxed that night, three weeks ago, happy, and reveling in it. He had felt to her… full of acceptance. The very acceptance her therapist was always preaching about. _Take one moment at a time. Feel it. Appreciate it. Good, or bad. Especially bad, because it'd pass._ He'd been having a good day, and he had been fully experiencing it. She had been a part of it.

At the moment he was so focused on her it made her skin crawl. Her mind thrashed. There was something she didn't understand, and she met his eyes, trying to catch it, when…

"Ms Leary, would you mind stepping with me into my room?"

The detective was on his feet, spine straight, eyes on her. Wren gave him a confused look and started slowly sliding off the sofa trying to stall. What was it about? The memory stick? Was she wrong to try to give it to the other brother?

And then the man in the chair - _John, his name was John_ \- shifted, and she saw his tense, icy eyes right in front of her. She blinked, and for a second it felt as if there weren't other two people in the room.

He was supposed to frighten her. Her common sense, which she'd always been so proud of, was screaming that a man who decided that a bird he hadn't even shagged was worth three weeks of torture by some sicko Russians clearly had 'run as fast as you can' warnings plastered all over him. And yet all she felt was… tenderness.

Walking by him - slowly, because she just couldn't gather her thoughts, and suss out what the detective wanted, and what she was to do, and what in the name of all deities was going on in her life - she brushed her hand to his shoulder. Because he needed it. And maybe, she did as well.

Maybe, getting tortured over a random chick was madness, but inviting a random bloke from a pub to her place was - fractually - the same madness. Why had she done it?

She needed a reminder, an answer, a confirmation. He felt scorching hot through the jumper, she felt the bone _\- acromion,_ her stupid photographic memory supplied _-_ under her palm, and the shoulder rose under her hand.

It was still there - the sensation of familiarity, of comfort, of warmth. _Weren't Wren an overdramatic, sappy dimwit these days?_

* * *

The detective let her pass him, and then closed the door behind him. Wren lifted her eyes at him, preparing to ask him why they hadn't gone to the other room, for the memory stick.

"Ms Leary, I will presume that the person with your abilities does not require unnecessary explanations, so I will just state directly that I oppose to your moving to Hull. I understand all the elements involved - although the sentimental aspect of it is extrinsic to me - and as an incentive I propose to you a partnership, which includes being my flatmate, and at your leisure my assistant in the investigations. Among other things, I would encourage you to take several medical courses, were you to agree. I have full trust in you succeeding in them, considering your previous reaction to blood and injuries. I do not think bringing up the arguments against the alternative prospect are required here, your intellect and common sense have clearly processed the available information, and I do not believe I can contribute into your consideration further."

"If you speak any faster, I'll need a recorder to rewind and put it on slow to understand anything," Wren blurted out, and he blinked.

And suddenly Wren started laughing. Some small part of her mind _\- not that small_ \- made her press her palm over her mouth, reminding her what her laughing happily would seem like to the man in the other room. _Hunger, that was what she saw in his eyes. Hunger…_

"Pardon?" The detective frowned, and Wren concentrated on him.

"Mr Holmes, out of what you just said I can discern a compliment to my intellect. To which I say... ta. And then you offering me to be your lodger. Also thank you. I'll think about it. I doubt I'd want to go back to my flat… But what was it about Hull?" Wren giggled. "Am I being forcefully relocated by your brother?"

"Mr Thorington is," the detective deadpanned, and Wren choked on her laughter.

"What?"

The man gave her a look over, and then sighed. She felt a painful pang of shame. She'd disappointed him. _She wasn't a machine, like him, cold and calculative. Of course, she needed some explanation! But on the other hand, neither was he._

"Mr Thorington will be provided with a new life in Hull. He would want you to join him. I estimate the probability of your agreeing on it at around 57%."

"You can't estimate the probability of it!" she cried out. "We aren't talking about a bullet trajectory here! It's feelings… and no logic whatsoever... and what sort of madness is this idea even?" Wren tangled in her own hysterical squeaking, and plopped her backside on his bed.

And then jumped back up, because that was surely intruding into his private space, and he'd hate it. And then she suddenly felt angry. Why was she supposed to care about the comfort and convenience of everyone else, except herself?!

She wriggled her fingers, fisted and unfisted her hands, and took a few measured breaths in. The detective was watching her with an unreadable face.

"OK, help me out here, Mr Holmes. Are you offering me to stay because you want me to stay, or because you don't want me to go?"

"Your question is fallacious, Ms Leary. Both parts of it are false, or true at the same time, and answering one would be answering the other," he pronounced in a monotonous voice, looking haughty.

"And you're being evasive!" she hissed back. The thoughts in her head were jumping and bumping into each other like buttons in a tumble dryer.

"You're considering the prospect, Ms Leary, based on… sentiment I do not wish to understand and discuss. I'm bringing up logical arguments." He couldn't sound less interested if he tried.

And yet Wren took a step closer to him and studied his face. He looked at her down his nose.

 _Inhale, exhale. Imagine yourself in a calm place, go to your calm place. For her, it was a library - of course. Rows and rows of books, silence, after hours. The smell of dust, the old paper. Alphabetical order, familiar coding system. Inhale, exhale…_

She'd never had anyone to talk to, to think of it. No one to discuss the tangled, daft knot of her emotions. To ask advice, to complain to. And equally, she never felt anyone keep up with her ridiculous mind, jumping from thought to thought, in zigzags, through random links, through the memories stored and classified. Until one day - _it was just yesterday, you daft cow_ \- she read that it was called a 'mind palace,' and apparently the eyes of the man currently standing in front of her moved just the same way as hers when he would go to his. She had previously freaked her colleagues out by doing it. He had been lucky to have a friend who found it fascinating, and even wrote about it in his blog. Maybe, Wren could use a friend like that as well.

So, if at least half of her needs - the intellectual one, not the emotional one - could be met, why would she say no? Maybe, she'd start sleeping better at night; maybe, it would hurt less. Maybe, she'd stop feeling like a freak every day of her bloody life.

 _Were she to go to Hull, she'd never feel that peaceful again, like she had dancing with him._

 _And again, it was clearly a madman sitting on that chair there… The mug had seemed so small in his fingers. She gave him his tea, and stepped to the detective with the second mug, and she still couldn't get rid of the image of the bandaged wrists, and the memories of those very hands on her skin..._

"I propose an experiment." The detective's voice shook her out of her concentration.

"Yes?" Wren asked absentmindedly, still trying to imagine living on Baker Street, and visiting crime scenes with him, when a large, long fingered hand lay on her shoulder.

She had half a second to understand what was happening. The half a second wasn't enough.

The detective _\- Sherlock, his name was Sherlock_ \- had warm, soft lips. And a surprising finesse for a person nicknamed The Virgin by a professional dominatrix. Or was it Moriarty who…? Wren's thoughts jumbled, and she lost the train of thought.

And then her eyes flew open. His hand was on her jaw, fingers splayed, tangled in her hair, his thumb on her cheekbone. The other hand lay on the side of her neck, with just the perfect amount of pressure. His eyes were closed, and he had fluffy lashes. _Who didn't? Every person had fluffy lashes. That's what lashes were for!_

And he was clearly performing. And experiment, or a play, or whatever the hell he thought he was doing - but she could bet her life that he felt exactly nothing.

She pulled back, and the slanted greenish-greyish eyes opened.

"And how was it?" she asked. Her tone was just as even as she was hoping. He studied her face, and Wren gave him a small melancholic smile. Maybe, if she tried hard enough he wouldn't hear how her heart was banging into her ribcage.

"Better than expected," the detective answered, and Wren snorted. _It wasn't of course at all funny, but what could one do in this absurd situation?_

"And what's your verdict, Mr Holmes?"

"I wasn't the one conducting the experiment."

It was Wren's turn to give the other person a scrutinizing look. Was he actually saying what she thought he was saying?

"Were you trying to show me that I would get equally infatuated with any other man who was to show me a minuscule of attention?!"

"Are you?"

She'd slap him, of course, but something told her he had been slapped so many times, and by so many people, that for him it would be like a daily cuppa. Wren exhaled sharply, and jerked her chin up.

"I am not desperate, Mr Holmes. Lonely, and insecure, I don't argue, but not desperate." She gave him a firm glare. "And none of your business, that's what I am. And what you did was cruel. And unfair."

She could see the cogs turn in that giant head of his, and Wren waited. She'd tell him a head was no help here, but would he listen? Exactly.

"Would you believe me it wasn't just for your sake?" he asked slowly, and Wren snorted derisively.

"Of course, not. Don't insult my intelligence." She turned away from him, and gave herself a moment to gather her thoughts. "If I stay you'll have to promise to never do it again. Manipulating me this way… it's hurtful, and again, below your intelligence, and mine. If I stay, you have to promise..."

"I promise," he interrupted her. And she believed him.

Wren sighed. Besides the obvious, she was also relieved. Had he not done it, she would've wondered. What it would've been like, and whether it would've been possible. And now she knew. It only showed her how similar they were; and how well they understood each other.

He did understand her, and she him. And despite the different approach, they both would find peace and comfort in this partnership. And she'd stay in the second bedroom. And chat with Mrs Hudson in her kitchen over tea. And he'd play his violin. And she'd never again have to feel like she was the only one like that.

Wren looked at the man, who was impersonating an Easter Island dummy, and then she nodded.

"I accept your proposition, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he spoke warmly and smiled to her. Wren nodded again, and turned to the door.

* * *

"Could I have the same luxury, perhaps? A wee bit of privacy?" Wren felt shudder run her body from the low voice, the Northern accent now heard clearly in it.

"Please." Sherlock flamboyantly waved towards his bedroom, and Wren considered giving him the John Watson line of 'bit not good, Sherlock.'

She rushed to the room, feeling the eyes of the three men on her back. She caught the sound of the former SAS officer behind her, the confident steps, despite the limp. Inside, he closed the door behind him, just like the detective, and Wren turned, meeting his eyes.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	12. Two to Go

"You're a smart woman, Wren," he spoke in a low voice, and leaned heavily on the window sill. Wren's eyes ran his body in all its impressive height. He seemed much thinner than before, but she guessed three weeks in some dirty, cold basement would do it to you. Nausea sharply rose from this thought, and she pressed her splayed hands over her stomach. The bandages on his wrists were pristine white, and she just just didn't want to think what those purple bruises on his neck were from. His face was calm though, while every stiff movement of his massive body screamed of the immense level of pain.

"So, I think trying to manipulate you would be daft. I know you feel sorry for me, and playing the Florence Nightingale card could even work. There's also guilt… And I can tell you that I need you… In case you have a saviour complex…" He seemed to be musing, talking more to himself than her, and then he focused his remarkable eyes on her. _Icy, outlined by black lashes. Like a husky._ "But like I said, I think you're too smart for it. So I'll just say it outright. I think you should go to Hull with me."

His intense gaze on her was unnerving, confusing her, and she turned away, and sat on the bed, trying to stay unaffected.

"This makes no sense… Why would you..?" she mumbled, and then she cringed from the whining tone of her own voice.

"Because we would be good for each other," he answered simply, and Wren shook her head.

"You're just traumatised, that's what it is. You spent three weeks in that basement, and tell me you didn't use me as the last thread to sanity there!" She turned to him, and she probably looked livid, but she just needed to make him see! He was wrong about her! She wasn't that woman! "I've read about it once. How in order to manage extreme pain a person can disassociate from their body, and concentrate on one specific memory, a physical one, to shift one's consciousness. That's what I am! I'm your last nice memory before the three weeks! We were rolling in my bed, and that's what stayed in your mind… And then you added all that non-exiting emotional stuff to it… And got stuck! I'm sure a good therapist would help you to get rid of it..."

"Are you done?" he asked her sharply, and she froze with her mouth half open. He was frowning, his jaw set, and she swallowed and nodded. "Besides other things, there is no bloody way to disassociate from pain of torture..." He exhaled sharply, stopping himself. "But that's not the point. If you need to know, this technique is indeed used, and I always think of my uni swimming championship, and finishing the Finals the second year. I've had plenty of practice over years with that one memory of water, and touching the wall with my fingers..." He once again stopped himself, and rubbed his jaw with the open palm. "Wren… I'd really appreciate if you weren't making assumptions regarding what it is that I think. It's bloody annoying. I get it, you are usually the smartest person in a room, and I bet he appreciates it, he might be even getting off it, but I hate being poked and probed..." His tone was unpleasant.

"Who he?" Wren asked in a small voice.

"The git in the other room. The detective." Wren saw his lips twist in a derisive grimace. He visibly took his expression under control, and looked at her, his features softening. "Wren, I don't need you to be my therapist. I've had plenty, and will of course see one once a week from now on again. I also need to tell you now, I make great progress in PTSD treatments. I work hard on my behaviour, and generally show remarkable improvement in the quality of life."

When he was being sardonic, his left eyebrow would rise, with a whimsical angle.

"Then what do you need from me?"

"Wren… What sort of question is that?" He gave her a pointed look. "Again, I'm not playing any mind games with you here. I'm no bloody Sherlock Holmes. If there's some special smartass answer you're expecting from me, you won't get it."

Wren dropped her eyes to her hands. Maybe, he was right. She'd been alone for so long she'd gotten used to being stuck in her own head, leading endless conversations with herself. Maybe, she wanted him to give her some meaningful, special answer, but again he was probably right. That wouldn't be him. That would be Sherlock Holmes. And she had already had a conversation with him.

"I just don't get it..." she muttered. "I mean it's scary, because I don't understand... And I'm used to understanding…."

He sighed again, in exasperation, and straightened up with a quiet groan. In two steps he came up to the bed, and sat down. Wren felt like wincing back. Or moving closer. She could feel the heat coming off his in waves. Something felt off, and then she realised that the smell from his skin was wrong. There's some medical scent mixed into it, and she hated it.

"Wren..." His velvet voice sounded tender, and she couldn't bring herself to look at him, and he picked up her chin, with a bent index finger, and gently lifted it, and she finally met his eyes. He leaned in, and Wren held her breath. He didn't kiss her though, and she expected him too. _Why didn't he? What was he waiting for?_ His eyes were impossibly close, and she started shaking.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered.

"I don't know..." he whispered back. "I don't have a list…" He chuckled quietly. _He did it when he was nervous._ "Just wanted to try it with you..."

What sort an answer was that?! What 'it'?! And what sort of answer was 'I don't have a list'?

They sat close, and his finger was still under her chin, and his eyes roamed her face, and she just couldn't understand why he wouldn't kiss her!

"I'm confused..." She sounded pathetic.

"Touch tits, kiddo."

He smiled to her tenderly, and she lunged ahead and pressed her mouth to his. It was clumsy, and not at all as successful as they described in books and fanfiction, but he shifted, adjusting the angle, and she felt his hand cradle her jaw, leading her to his lips much more deftly. She couldn't say she minded.

She moved closer, almost forgetting about his injuries, pressing into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, much more carefully, as if it were her who had several broken ribs, and they kissed for a few minutes. Wren felt like butter forgotten on a table under a sunny window. All her body felt… sweet, like hot syrup, so very good… She sighed into his lips, and then he slowly moved away, and his hands lay on her wrists. Her skin tingled from the feeling of his palms, but then he carefully took her arms off him.

She blinked frantically several times not understanding, and he smirked.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"At least now I remember why I invited you over," she blurted out, and he emitted a small chuckle, leaned in, and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Let my ribs heal, love, and I'll remind you more thoroughly." She blinked again, and then her cheeks burnt. His Roger Moore eyebrow crawled even higher, and she gulped.

"Well, jokes aside, kiddo, are we doing it then?" he asked, still a smile on his lips, but his eyes serious. Wren chewed at her bottom lip. "I get it, you do fancy me, but you're too smart to stay just for shag."

"Men make this mistake all the time. Why do you think the divorce rate is so high?" _Leary-Tourette struck again._ "Once the sex becomes boring, that's when the barney starts."

"Well, that - I can promise you - won't happen." His voice rumbled in his throat, with some very masculine intonation, and Wren squirmed on the bed. _Sherlock Holmes' bed, by the way._

"But I've already said 'yes' to staying…" Wren muttered, and he sat straighter and looked at her down his nose. This nose was much longer, and considering the height difference, the gesture looked much more impressive.

"For a cold fish, the git surely moves fast…" The tone was pensive, and thus even more menacing. Wren dismissed her sudden worry about Sherlock's well-being as preposterous. It wasn't Middle Ages, and she was no property of John Crispin Thorington!

"Mr Thorington, my brother is gone, and I require your assistance in apprehension of your assailants." The detective's clear, even voice came from behind the closed door, and Wren jolted.

"Here it comes," Thorington muttered, smiled for no reason - _just the lips, not the eyes_ \- and then quickly leaned in, and pressed his lips to her cheek. Wren gasped.

And then grabbed his sleeve, because he was rising to clearly join the detective in the other room.

"What are you doing?" she hissed him.

He was already standing, so he bent, cringing from pain, cupped her face, and she froze like a rabbit caught with a carrot in its teeth.

"Don't worry," he whispered, and kissed her. Quickly, firmly, as if he had every right to. And then he was straightening up, but dove for one more. This one was rushed, and he murmured, "God, I need more time with you…"

Wren was gawking at him.

* * *

Since it took her three seconds to gather her bearings - more from his manner, than from the news that the two men in the other room were apparently going to 'apprehend Thorington's assailants' - when Wren rushed into the living room, they stood close together, Sherlock's phone in Thorington's hand.

"You'll owe me one, Mr Holmes, after this," Thorington mumbled, returning the mobile.

"I'm aware," Sherlock answered haughtily, pushed the phone in the pocket of the coat he already had on, and then finally looked at Wren.

Something had happened while she was in the bedroom with Thorington - something very, very bad. His eyes were cold - she shivered - but there was something else. _Her Mum looked that way when Wren would go clubbing. Then, before that night, when she'd been still going out. Fear, that's what it was. Fear_ for _someone._

"Sherlock, what's going on?" she asked helplessly.

"Nothing that concerns you, Ms Leary." He sounded like he did when she'd come into this room two days ago. As if she were nothing. _She_ was _nothing to him. Did she actually think otherwise?_

"Wren, stay here, and wait for us," Thorington spoke softly, and Wren shifted her eyes onto him.

"John…"

He then sharply stepped to her, his hand cupped the back of her head, and he pulled her in. She felt him press his face into the crown of her head and inhale deeply.

"Just stay here, OK?" He whispered into her hair, and she impulsively grabbed handfuls of his jacket.

"You two are doing something stupid, and dangerous, and I'm scared…"

"I can't take you with me…" Thorington and Wren spoke at the same time, and she tried to move away to look into his face, but he didn't let her.

He was huge, massive, heavy. Why wasn't he frightening her? Men did. He was so loudly masculine, but she wasn't repulsed, or scared. She wanted to hide into him, and at the same time protect him. _What sort of protection could a measly nothing like her provide? And who said a bearman would need it?_

She twisted out of his grip, and met the eyes of the detective.

"Sherlock..."

For a second the strange, angular face of the detective wavered, and then he was back to his cold self.

"Stay here, Ms Leary, just as Mr Thorington said. Let no one in. Don't trust anyone, except Mrs Hudson. Don't go anywhere, no matter who says so."

"What? Where would I go?"

The man didn't answer, and Wren looked at Thorington again. He nodded to her, and stepped away. She immediately felt colder.

And then the door to the flat closed, and the two of them were gone.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	13. A Favour

They walked down the stairs, and Thorington emitted a long martyrly sigh. He properly didn't want to go.

"So, what's the plan, Mr Holmes?"

"You distract the two men downstairs, I'll get out at the back. We meet two streets down, near a flower shop."

"And more debriefing will ensue in the cab, I assume," Thorington continued his gibing, mocking the man's posh pronunciation. The detective pulled up the collar of his coat - _stuck up ponce, what did his little ginger find in him?_ \- and disappeared in the flat of his landlady.

Thorington quickly popped another painkiller in his mouth, and swallowed, through a scratchy throat. Should've had that tea.

"Oi, mate, have a fag?" he asked one of the suits, faking a pikey accent. They both turned, but only one made eye contact. Thorington gave him an idiotic smile.

"Don't smoke," the bloke answered, and Thorington paused near them, flapping his hands on the jacket, as if looking for a pack.

"No? Pity..." He mournfully shook his head. He then quickly looked the chummier one over. _Longish hair, no tan. Civilian._ "Bloody service, yeah?" Thorington smiled even wider, and the dunce preened up. "A chick and some pale git in a poncy coat? What's there to keep visual on?" The second one tensed, and Thorington ignored him. "They drag us back and forth, as if we're crows. Bring this, get that." He considered spitting on the floor for theatrical effect, but refrained out of respect for the funny landlady who giggled at his jokes.

"Move on, 'mate,'" the second suit snarled through teeth, and Thorington threw him a radiant smile. This one was sincere. He truly found the boy's 'tude funny.

"Sure thing, mate. Have a good one!" He saluted them, and walked out of the building.

* * *

The cab was already there, and the detective was sitting at the back, his otter like face even more sour than usual. Thorington slid on the seat near him, and the car moved.

"So, Mr Holmes, for us mere mortals around you, let's quickly summarize your barney. So, the Russkies have your friend, John Walters..."

"Watson," the detective scoffed. Thorington smirked. Point Johnny boy.

"Alright, John Watson. And they want the memory stick, but you gave it to your brother..."

"I didn't." The git pulled it out of his coat. Very dramatic. John could bet some gingers enjoyed these theatrics, maybe even applauded, and definitely looked at the prick with admiration. _If he broke the ponce's nose right now, it wouldn't harm their business one bit._ "I provided Mycroft with the exact copy of this one, but full of corrupted data, so that the switch isn't discovered right away. As you know, Mr Thorington, the MOD uses the standard memory sticks. I have procured a supply for exactly such occasion. During your requested private time with Ms Leary, I received a text from the assailants, and I gave my brother a dummy, keeping the original."

Thorington gave the detective a merry look over. John didn't fancy analysing his emotions, but something akin pity stirred in him. What sort of arsed up mind did one need to have to constantly require audience and narrating of one's intellectual victories? Mr Holmes' parents had a lot to answer for, that's for certain.

"And that's my cue, I s'pose. You show up with the stick, distract them with your deductions, and I take care of our Russian friends. You save your friend. MOD gets their stick." The detective looked him over. Thorington benevolently let him. He honestly had nothing to hide.

"I can't go to my brother, or police. I can't risk their clumsy methods. You have the… required skills, Mr Thorington, and something tells me you will not waste a chance to execute your revenge."

Thorington guffawed.

"And they say you're smart, Mr Holmes. If I tried to 'execute revenge' on everyone who tortured me, or made additional orifices in my body, I'd have to travel to at least six countries. And I don't have enough Avios points for that."

"Why would you be helping me then?" The otter face looked confused, and the mouth slightly opened. Thorington leaned back on the seat, relaxing the spine. It bloody hurt, but what didn't? He knew only one good way to fall asleep, in this state, and even - maybe - have little to no nightmares, but luring his little ginger to bed for unmentionable acts was sadly a rather distant prospect. One step at a time, he reminded himself. Finish this, and then convince her to go with him. _And then cool sheets, and a small silky body near him._

"Like I said, Mr Holmes, if we live through this, you'll owe me one. I might need you to back off, or even convince Wren to go with me. Depends on how it goes." He dropped his head back, and closed his eyes. He had forty minutes minimum till they got to the location. He wouldn't be able to nap, but he could use some body scan.

"You're doing it to ensure Ms Leary's agreement. I don't understand." The git continued to drone at the background, and Thorington cringed. "You're ready to face bullets for a random woman..."

"Uh-huh, random… She got _you_ into knots. And aren't you the famous Mr Holmes, an Internet phenomenon, the master of cold unemotional reason?"

Thorington actually quite fancied the thought. If he acted smart, and convinced her - there might be some groveling and whining required, he wasn't proud - he'd best the Sherlock Holmes, a genius detective in a daft hat. _And then he'd seat her on his lap, in one of his tees, or nothing at all, and feed her raspberries. She had such a sexy mouth._

The detective finally went silent, and Thorington took a deep breath in.

"Such sentiment is a weakness of a losing side in any war." God, didn't the git know how to shut his gob?

"I'm not at war, Mr Holmes. I'm a civilian computer specialist. I'm simply ensuring my retirement plan." Blimey, the man was thinking so loudly near Thorington that John opened his eyes and gave the detective an exaggerated polite look. "Yes, Mr Holmes?"

"If you cherish Ms Leary so much, wouldn't it make sense to seek an option best for her?"

"And that's you, in your opinion, right?" Thorington chuckled.

"I am not speaking in terms of relationship, Mr Thorington. I refer to Ms Leary's potential lifestyle. Wouldn't a fulfilling, intellectually stimulating life in London, under her real name, be better than MOD relocation, with questionable employment, and precarious companionship?" _There would be plenty of stimulation in the little ginger's life with him, thank you very much._

Thorington was getting angry, and decided that for the detective's sake's the topic should be dropped.

He shrugged and closed his eyes again. Hic et nunc.

"Do we have a gun, Mr Holmes?" he asked, and the detective made a scornful noise nearby.

"I would assume you do not require one, Mr Thorington. Mycroft seemed to consider you quite dangerous."

"It's been five years since I did anything remotely homicidal, Mr Holmes, and may I remind you I spent the last three weeks tied to a chair, my feet in a basin of cold water. I need a gun. And some bullets would help too." _Or better so, the git could go and deal with his shite himself, and John would return to Baker Street, take his little bird to the nearest B'n'B, and go back to where they had been rudely interrupted. He wouldn't be able to do much, but he'd take good care of her._

"We will make a stop, and I will obtain weapon for you. We still have thirty minutes till the rendez-vous."

"Ace. Can I have some chips, then?" Alright, that was childish, but the curled upper lip, and the indignation on the posh otter face were properly entertaining.

The rest of the ride passed - thankfully - in silence. They made a stop, the detective disappeared for a few minutes in a Chinese restaurant - probably collecting an old favour, in the form of two Glocks 17, one quickly passed to Thorington. John sighed, from the familiar weight on his palm. They drove further North, and he went through a round of breathing exercises, calming the pain, and clearing his mind.

He had seven minutes left, and he let his mind wander. Just as his therapist always suggested - looking into the future, imagining oneself there, when the pain was gone…No exact plans, just narrow, practical images to work towards… _A small flat, no, maybe even a cottage… Lots of plants on windows, she was clearly fond of them… Did she cook? He did, a bit, could make a decent breakfast. Lazy late morning… He fancied her in PJs, she looked good just now… He'd give her the crossword page, and read sports. Did she drink coffee in the morning? He did, with plenty of cream and sugar, and he'd look at her from time to time. She seemed like a distracted snacker kind, an arm around a paper, blindly snatching toast. Like a cat. Would they get a cat? No, none of those bastards; maybe a dog later._

He couldn't come up with anything else. He wasn't a writer, or anything, after all. Maybe, there'd be no plants, and no cottage, no bloody postcard picture he'd just imagined, but any breakfast would be OK, just the two of them. Just a bit of peace. Just a bit of silence in his head.

 _He'd sat across the pub table from her, and she glared at him. The basket with chips in front of her was empty, and he couldn't let her leave. They chatted, and his head was blissfully empty, and light, and it wasn't because of the lager… and in her flat she pressed into him, and her eyes were huge in front of him, and she was so responsive, and appreciative of everything he did, and he fancied everything about her, and he could lock her ankle between his thumb and his index finger, and she moaned loudly, when he kissed her stomach, and she was just so very… his._

"We are here, Mr Thorington."

The cab wasn't moving, and John opened his eyes, and sighed. He properly didn't want to go.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	14. Another Basement

**Author's Note: This chapter is either penultimate, or the second before last.**

 **The translations of the lines in Russian are after the chapter.**

 **Best,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

John came back to his senses, and immediately felt irritated. How many times in the last years that he had had the pleasure of knowing the overbearing, prickish git of Sherlock Holmes had he woken up in the middle of some aggro that clearly had nothing to do with him? Sherlock might have thought him dim - and most were compared to the prick - but even Watson knew that him being gagged and tied to a chair, with two hard looking men in black standing nearby, couldn't possibly have anything to do with him - a simple doctor - and had everything to do with a skinny ginger librarian, presumably, Russian special forces, and a memory stick with state secrets.

"Он проснулся. Говорил я тебе, нормально я бил, а ты 'Череп проломил! Череп проломил!'"

So Russians, indeed. Watson quickly looked around. It was a basement, of some living building probably. One door, a small window under the ceiling, painted black.

"Где эта сволочь? Опаздывает…" one of them mumbled, looking at the very military looking watch on his wrist.

"Нет, еще пять минут," the second answered in a mollifying tone.

Then a mobile of the first Russian bleeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

"Прибыл. Говорит, что он снаружи. Вместе пойдем?" He asked something, and pointed at the door with his gun, and the second one nodded, and then pulled down the balaclavas.

* * *

They didn't get a chance to open the door. One of them had his hand on the handle, when a kick - it could hardly have been anything but - came from outside, smashing the metal door into his shoulder, and at the next moment a heavy body propelled inside, preceded by a fist. The first Russian deftly impersonated a flour sack, like one of those Mr Chatterjee dragged at the back of his shop. He flopped on the floor, still moving away from the door with a rustle, on inertia. The second Russian tried to address the situation but received a gun handle treatment to his temple, and followed the example of his mate.

The following events were out of sequence for Watson, it was just too fast. He later remembered Sherlock rushing in, his pretentious coat flashing in the light of a small bare bulb under the ceiling, the first Russian cutting the man who had broken in under his knees, a flash of a gun - strangely enough, Watson later didn't remember the sound - and Sherlock socking the second Russian in a jaw. There was a lot of movement, there was at least one more gun shot, a lot of swearing in Russian, and then of course one of the morons had to topple Watson's chair on the floor.

The fall was clumsy, and included a sensitive blow to the back of Watson's head, and if not for the gag, he'd introduce the men around him to his opinion on their parentage. He wiggled and squirmed, and managed to roll onto his side.

Sherlock was by the wall, half sitting, half lying, pressing his hand to the shoulder. Even in the dimness of the basement, Watson could see blood running between his splayed fingers, his palm firmly pressed into a - supposedly - gun wound.

One Russian was on the floor, heaving heavily, and somehow Watson knew he'd been knocked out by the man who was probably on their side. He was large, over six four, and watching him disarm the second Russian was like a film with Jason Statham. Except it looked real and not at all exciting. And then the Russian pulled out a knife, and it became ugly. Both men moved swiftly, fluidly, and when the knife slashed across the other man's arm, Watson could hear the familiar sound of flesh being cut deeply. Nausea rose, and then the tall man lunged ahead, and the knife was in his hand, and then buried deep into the Russian's hip.

The Russian fell, and the other man barked at him, "На пол, сволочь! И не дрыгайся!" The voice was calm and authoritative, and the Russian pressed his hands into the wound, around the blade still sticking out of him.

"Дерни свою зубочистку, истечешь кровью минут за семь." There was no accent, but then John recognised the face. It was in Sherlock's mobile, on the photo of the portrait from Ms Leary's flat. John Thorington. "Я бы поостерегся..." the man sneered sardonically, through bared teeth. The Russian glared at him, not moving anymore.

"How are you, Mr Holmes?" the man asked, without looking back at Sherlock, his eyes trained on the two immobile Russians.

"Quite well, thank you," Sherlock answered, and heavily rose. "It just grazed me, I would be alright on time for John's wedding."

"Mazel tov," Thorington gleefully announced, and pointed at Watson with the gun in his hand. "You should untie your friend. Based on my personal experience, our friends from Krasnodar here are a bit too enthusiastic about knots. Cut my circulation couple times, before they'd found just the right amount of pressure."

Sherlock was already near Watson, jerking at the ropes. Watson surely had a lot to say to him, about this whole aggro. He had been peacefully going down to his car from the clinic, when they came up to him. He'd only seen one, the other deftly turned off the lights in Watson's head with a precise blow to the back of it.

Ropes were off, and the gag pulled out.

"Sherlock… What's…?"

"It's OK, John," the git mumbled absentmindedly, quickly texting. To his brother, Watson assumed.

And then the Russian - not the one with the arse scary knife sticking out of his leg, the other one - stirred, and jumped up, and rushed ahead.

Everything went into slow-mo, and then it was already not like _Transporter,_ but more John Woo. Thorington twirled on one spot, his military jacket drawing a ridiculous - almost theatrical - arch in the air, and the long arm with a Glock flew up, and…

The gun was pressed to the Russian's forehead, and all five men in the basement froze.

"It would be so easy..." Thorington spoke in the silence of the basement, his eyes strangely unfocused, and Watson heard Sherlock draw a shallow breath in. "And so satisfying…" The cold blue eyes grew sharp, and he tilted his head lightly, addressing the Russian, "Страшно тебе, братишка?" The Russian's throat bobbed, and John saw him shudder. "Молодец, так и надо... Только вот курок потяну, и все... Хана... Мозги твои феерверком полетят..."

"Thorington…" Sherlock's tone was soft, careful, and strange smirk jerked at the former officer's lips.

"Even with you and Mr Watson here as witnesses, it wouldn't change anything. I've killed enough for this country, I'll still get my retirement. One more death hardly counts..." Thorington's voice was even, business like, as if he were actually weighing the deaths in his head.

And then the hand with the gun moved, and he deftly knocked the man out.

"No need to tempt the fate. She might still find out…"

Watson exhaled in the relief. And then the door flew open, and several men rushed in.

"Queen and country..." Sherlock mumbled near him, and Thorington threw the gun aside, lifting his hands.

* * *

It was of course Mycroft, and they were loaded into Jags, and as usual delivered to Baker Street. Not before Sherlock's shoulder was examined, just as Thorington's arm; both were patched up, Watson was offered painkillers. Through the procedures Mycroft stood with a bored face, leaning on his umbrella.

"That was bloody quick, even for your brother," Watson addressed Sherlock, and Thorington snorted nearby.

"He probably has your flat wired, or at least keeping visual on you. I'd hoped he'd have shown up earlier. How often does he let you have the illusions of an adventure?" Watson saw Sherlock glare at the tall man. He needed to substantially lift his chin for that. "I'm asking for Wren's sake of course. I'd like to know she'll be looked after if she stays."

Sherlock didn't grant the man an answer, but it was hardly expected.

* * *

The two suits in the hall were new, Mrs Hudson squawking and rushing to them - sadly - wasn't.

"Oh dear, Sherlock, are you alright? And John here, too!"

"We are fine, Mrs Hudson. It's just a scratch."

"Indeed it is," Mycroft offered a sardonic line from behind them. "And my cue to leave. Since our John here is your only friend, brother dear, and thus you'll be hardly inclined to perform another stunt of the sort, I presume you are safe to be left alone now."

The detective made a derisive scoff noise, and Mycroft mumbled his goodbyes and left.

Sherlock was going up the stairs, Watson followed, simultaneously answering to Mrs Hudson's questions, and then he realised that Thorington still stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"Sherlock?" Watson called after the detective, and they both looked at the former SAS officer. His face was dark.

"You owe me a favour, Mr Holmes. I need your deductions now."

Watson saw the eyes of the two men lock.

"You know her better than I do. What do I say?"

* * *

 **Translation:**

"He woke up. I told you I hit him right. And you were like 'Cracked his skull! Cracked his skull!'"

"Where is that bellend? He's late..."

"No, five more minutes..."

"He's here. Says he's outside. Shall we go together?"

"To the floor, you fucker! And don't twitch!"

"Pull out the toothpick, and you'll bleed out in about seven minutes. I'd refrain."

"Are you scared, brother? You should be. All I need to do is to pull the trigger... And done... The fireworks of your brain on the wall..."

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	15. The End

**That's the last chapter, my dearies. And then a small epilogue. I hope you had at least a minuscule of fun that I had while writing it.**

 **Love you!**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Wren sat on the same old sofa, knees pulled to her chin, blanket wrapped around her. At some point Mrs Hudson brought her tea, and the mug was still on the floor at Wren's feet, untouched. Wren went through all five stages of grief - self-ironically, of course. Both her IQ and her sensitivity had mulled over her situation, and the two men that had made their respective proposals before disappearing - apparently to face two Russians, from special forces, with guns, knives, fire throwers, and whatnot. Somehow Wren's mind was stuck on the image of the purple bruises around John Thorington's wrists. There were red cuts, and the flesh was swollen, skin uneven. Had they been wrapping barbed wire around his arms? Nausea would rise, and Wren would breathe like they taught her in therapy.

He had gone through it for her, for three weeks. She tried to make peace with this fact, but it would not fit into any sort of mental box. She would replay the events in her head, but it was like trying to pack a winter jacket for Summer, when it's either the fur collar, or a puffy sleeve that would stick out.

And then she would bring her mind down to the problem at hand. Whatever had happened between her and Thorington - and her and Sherlock, for that matter - what mattered now was whether they were possibly dying somewhere in a ditch. Or being tied to a chair in that very basement. And if they weren't, and were now coming back, having apprehended or - somehow more likely - killed the Russians, what was she to think then?

The door banged downstairs, there were some voices, and then Wren heard Mrs Hudson's loud exclamations. More noise, footsteps - and the door to the flat opened, and John Watson came in. A bruise decorated the right cheek, blood smeared on his neck; he was rumpled, and dusty. _Tired, going down from adrenaline. Relieved._

"Dr Watson..." Wren breathed out, and he gave her a shaky smile. _He pitied her. That was pity in his eyes. And he felt cautious. Something about her - or associated with her - frightened him._ "Sherlock?"

"He's alright. Just a grazing wound." Wren's head spun. "Thorington is alright too. Just a cut on his arm."

"What happened?" She sounded as if she had tonsillitis.

"Russians held me hostage. Sherlock and Thorington got me out. It was about some memory stick… Mycroft has it now."

"And the assailants were safely delivered to Mr Holmes the Older as well." Thorington's voice came from behind the doctor, and the latter stepped aside.

Thorington stood in the door, his eyes fixed on her.

"They are both alive, and relatively unscathed. Since you probably worried." He smiled to Wren blissfully, and she scrutinized his face. "Mr Holmes told me you're an empath. And suggested under no circumstances to tell you how tempted I was to kill the Russians."

He shifted, letting Sherlock in. The detective had his coat thrown over his healthy arm, another one in a sling, bandages striking white. Wren quickly looked at Thorington, searching for the cut Dr Watson had mentioned. His right forearm was bandaged. Why hadn't she noticed when he came in? _Was she distracted? Of course she was. Because he was looking into her eyes, and she was asking herself whether he actually wanted her to go to Hull with him, and whether his obvious psychopathy was going to stop her._

Dr Watson went to the kitchen, to call his fiancee, and to make tea. Sherlock heavily sat into his chair, and dropped his head back, closing his eyes. Thorington still stood by the entrance.

"Are they gone now?" Wren asked, not addressing anyone specific, and Sherlock muttered 'Yes, they are' from his chair.

"My ride will be here in fifteen minutes," Thorington mentioned, also as if addressing a wall.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at the man, and then at Wren. Wren gave him a pathetic begging look. _She honestly had no one else to ask..._

"Mr Holmes here suggested I played on your sympathy, Wren." Each next sentence from Thorington was falling like a giant weight onto the floor, making the silence between them only more deafening. Wren just couldn't meet his eyes. "He stated that in his opinion if you were certain that your presence in my life kept me sane and within normality limits, you'd go with me." Thorington's voice was strangely cheerful. "In _his_ opinion, you have a martyr streak, and would gladly submit yourself into what has every potential to become abusive relationship if you knew you acted for the greater good."

Wren was still looking at Sherlock.

"You will be relocated, given a new name, a new biography, a job. You won't be able to contact anyone from your past. You will have no one to rely on. Your only contact will be Mr Thorington," Sherlock slowly spoke, and Wren chewed at her bottom lip.

 _Were they all going to ignore the fact that it was madness?! It'd been three days, plus half a night three weeks ago, and she didn't have to decide anything at the moment, and her life could just go on as it was before. And now the Russians were gone, and Thorington would leave, and she would be back to her real, boring, unassuming, librarian self… Or she could take Sherlock on his offer, and move into Baker 221B._

She also felt that Thorington was missing an important point. Even if she went, would she even be able to meet his needs? _Useless, ugly, weak, so weak… She needed to tell him. He was wrong about her._

"I can't be your nurse... Or your handler… Or whatever it is you need..." Wren was talking to the acorns on her pyjama bottoms.

"Oh no!" Thorington exclaimed in a high pitched voice. "You aren't going to make an honest man out of me?" Wren's eyes flew up to his face. His eyebrows were hiked up in a comical terrified expression. "After all we had?"

The pause hung in the room, and then Wren giggled. Thorington grinned widely.

"C'mon, kiddo. It's not that tragic." He leaned his back to the wall and checked his watch. "You still have whole ten minutes to decide. They say it takes women ten seconds to decide whether they fancy a bloke."

Wren took a shuddered breath in and finally looked at the man.

"How are you so calm?"

"I'm trying to be optimistic here, kiddo. If Mr Holmes is right, and you're an empath, the last thing you need right now is me spilling my anxiety onto you. We've just been in a gun and knife fight, Mr Holmes here is flagging. That's the normal reaction to an adrenaline rush. Shaking hands, nightmares, and intrusive memories. I have the ability to postpone the fall out. I think I might have to drink excessively tonight. Or shag. Shag helps too." His eyes went darker, and she gulped. He then winked to her.

"So, you see, Wren..." His voice dropped, somewhere into the velvet baritone diapason. "I will just stupidly hope you'll say 'yes' for seven minutes, and you'll catch my mood, and it'll be easier for you to breathe."

Wren heard the detective shift in his chair.

"And it's all on you, kiddo. Your choice. It's not about what I need, or rubbish like some greater good. Unlike Mr Holmes here who sees a victim in you, I think you're a fit, clever, and very strong woman. I'm damn sure you'll make it work with any bloke. I just hope you'd pick me."

Wren closed her eyes, and listened attentively. She could almost hear his heartbeat - _or was it hers? -_ and she could feel the calmness and honesty behind his words. And if she pretended for a second that she wasn't afraid, and properly just couldn't understand why he'd want her - with all her self doubt and her anxiety aside - did she actually want him?

* * *

Wren opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I know I said I would, but I was wrong," she whispered.

"It is quite alright," the detective spoke from his chair, and Thorington's head whipped towards him. And then back to her, his blue eyes brilliant.

Wren smiled to him.

"How does he know everything?" Thorington pointed at the detective in funny dramatic gesture, and Wren laughed.

"He is very smart."

"And Ms Leary isn't looking at me anymore." Sherlock rose from his chair and walked up to her. She dropped her head back, and her eyes roamed his face. She was painfully aware that was probably the last time she saw him - the striking features, the slanted greenish-grey eyes, something akin melancholy splashing in them right now.

"If you ever need my help..." he spoke in a low voice.

"I'll stop by," she answered with a smile, and - because it was a goodbye, and even if he got angry, he'd get over it - she rose on her tiptoes, quickly placed her hand on his chest, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

His large, long fingered hand lay on her shoulder blades, and then the thumb brushed at the hollow between them.

"Goodbye, Wren."

"It was a pleasure, Mr Holmes," she whispered, and she meant it.

She moved back, and threw a look at Thorington.

"I'll pack my stuff." He nodded.

* * *

Ten minutes later they sat at the back of yet another black Jag, and John picked up her hand.

"It's a long ride. Do you want a nap?" he offered softly, and she smiled.

"I have better plans."

His lips tasted of the coffee he had in the paper cup in the cup holder, and the beard scratched at her palm. He smiled into the kiss, and she shifted closer to him.

"I'm worried to hurt you… All these bruises and broken ribs..." she whispered, and he slightly turned and pressed his forehead to hers.

"If I take my clothes off, you'll know what zones to avoid." She laughed quietly, and kissed the tip of his long nose.

"Duffus."

THE END

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **Details in the latest blog post.**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

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 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

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 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	16. Epilogue

_4 years later..._

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"Sherlock! Yoo-hoo, are you here?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the stairs, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock!"

"I'm up, Mrs. Hudson," he answered. She stuck her head through the door, and smiled to him. There was clearly a client waiting for him.

"Sherlock, I have a client waiting for you, but…" Why did the woman always require stating the obvious? There was something slightly off in her tone. She hesitated, and he looked at her from above his laptop.

"Well, what is it, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh, you just see for yourself..." She stepped aside, letting a young woman inside.

 _Shorter hair, stylish bob. Make up. Elegant cashmere coat. Bold colours, matching accessories. Ten pounds extra weight. Just from the train to London, expensive ticket. Birkin handbag._

"Good evening, Sherlock."

He remembered her weight and measurements, but apparently had forgotten the confident lilting voice.

"Mrs Thorington, I presume?" He rose and stretched his hand towards her.

Wren laughed softly, and her long fingers wrapped around his. He felt the thick band and the ring with a large sapphire press into his skin.

"Greaves. Olivia Greaves, nee Peters." She smiled wider and shook her head. "They let me pick my name."

They looked at each other, and he noticed he was still holding her hand.

"I stopped by, Sherlock." She gave him a pointed look.

"I'm at your service, Mrs Greaves."


End file.
